


My Fair Hobbit

by Erinye



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse of Khuzdul, Alternate Universe - Middle Earth Setting, Cultural Differences, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, My Fair Lady!AU, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 148,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3407951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erinye/pseuds/Erinye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take a dragon and get rid of it, take a Kingdom under the Mountain and let it thrive under Thráin’s rule, take the King’s eldest son - as proud and arrogant as you can picture him - and then send him to the Shire in order to refine his diplomatic skills. Or, as his sister puts it: <i>to grow them at last</i>. Now, throw in the Master of Bag End playing host for the dwarf prince: you’ll get a clash of cultures, an ill-advised bet about educating a certain hobbit in the dwarf-lore, and all the pride and prejudice business you could hope for, plus Khuzdul.  </p><p>A retelling inspired by <i>My Fair Lady</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Melekûn

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at writing light-hearted romance set in Middle-Earth, inspired by that delicious piece of cinema that is _My Fair Lady_ (George Cukor’s filmic version of the musical based on Shaw’s play _Pygmalion_ ) - though you don't need to have watched it to appreciate the plot. Still, if you're acquainted with the film starring Audrey Hepburn and Rex Harrison you may be amused by some of the chapter titles.  
> Please note that this story does NOT deal with the Ring and other (tragic) events of the canon. 
> 
>    
> [zaphobeeblebro](http://zaphodbeeblebro.tumblr.com/) is my preciousss beta-reader: thank you dear for taking care of my chapters!  
> [Dwarrow Scholar](https://dwarrowscholar.wordpress.com/)’s Dictionary is my main reference for the abuse of Khuzdul.  
> Comments are always welcome!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Bilbo Baggins, host of dwarves.

The Shire was threaded in golden light; it had been raining when they had reached Hobbiton, and now smaller and larger puddles glittered in the meadows. The earth under the hooves of their ponies had turned tender from the Spring rain; the dwarves’ heavy boots were lined with mud, and their cloaks as well. But Thorin, son of Thráin son of Thrór, heir to the Kingdom under the Mountain, paid no mind to the muck nor to the light. The Shire held no interest to him: he did not see the fields speckled with flowers nor the sweet shadows offered by the trees; nor did he wish to take notice of the round faces peering at them from windows, thresholds, and benches.

“How far yet?” Dwalin grunted, looking around as if he was expecting a bunch of stray orcs to appear at any moment on their path.

In truth the dwarves would have relished in the fight: their travel had been devoid of any diversion; while the long, difficult negotiations with the Thain and the Mayor from Michel Delving had left Thorin and his companions almost drowsy. Even more unfortunate was the fact that it had been impossible to find them an accommodation large enough to welcome their entire group.

Thus half a dozen warriors had been lodged in Hobbiton’s common hall, the same one where the negotiations had taken place and where Thorin and his followers had been introduced to a ridiculous number of melekûnh from all over the Shire. Another sort of accommodation had been designed for the prince, for Balin the king’s own councillor, and for Balin’s brother Dwalin, who also acted as Thorin’s personal guard.

_An accommodation appropriate for a prince_ , the Thain had promised, choosing to ignore Thorin’s comment about the scarce attraction that hobbits’ comforts held for the sons of Durin. By then Thorin had already been exhausted by the long hours sacrificed to diplomacy, and he had guessed Balin’s disapproval for his manifest contempt, therefore he had grudgingly accepted the Thain’s offer, and they had been given instructions to reach the house of one Master Baggins.

“Not far,” Thorin replied, narrowing his eyes. “We should almost be there.”

Actually the Thain had also offered one of his sons as guide to Master Baggins’ house. Thorin had taken a look at the melekith, who was so chubby that it was a mystery how he could actually walk instead of rolling around like the leather ball Fíli used to play with. Thorin had refused any help, half from disdain of being offered such a poor escort and half from distrust. The young halfling might have spied on them on his father’s account on the way to Master Baggins’ house - that particular house they were failing to spot among the others.

“You said that before,” Dwalin smirked, “twice.”

“Hardly my fault if these sheds look all the same,” Thorin snapped back.

“I would advise you to not despise so openly our hosts,” Balin intervened, pushing his pony between the prince’s and Dwalin’s. “We are here to promote relations between Erebor and the West, not to kindle a war.”

“A _war_?” Thorin repeated, disdainfully. “These melekûnh could not discern a spoon from a lance and they would be able to use only the former without disgracing themselves. We could smash all their windows and burn their orchards, and still they would thank us for the honour rather than declaring war. They are frightened little things: it would take no more than a bunch of miners with pickaxes to conquer their hills and fields,” Thorin concluded, while Dwalin sniggered.

Balin seemed little amused though.

“You asked me why I refused to convince your father to ignore Tharkûn’s advice, and send prince Frerin here in your place. Your words are reason enough,” the old dwarf commented drily.

“Brother, our prince was hardly suggesting to wage war on the halflings,” Dwalin intervened. “You spoke of war first, and Thorin was just explaining why you should not worry about that eventuality.”

“Should we insult them then?” Balin asked, his eyes moving from Dwalin to Thorin.

“Is truth an insult?” Thorin asked in return, holding Balin’s gaze. The prince did not miss the look of disappointment on Balin’s face. In his heart he regretted having taken their quarrel so far, once again; but he was right, and in this case Balin was wrong: they did not need these halflings. “Have you seen them, Balin?” Thorin inquired, more gently this time. “You think me prejudiced against them, but you might be trying to see them for what they are not. This idea that we Khazâd should befriend them is ridiculous.”

“It was _my_ idea as well as Tharkûn's,” Balin answered. Thorin tensed, but he hid his embarrassment behind his usual annoyed frown. “And I believe that Erebor might profit from our stay in the Shire. If you had cared to listen to the Thain’s words, you would have found them extremely wise and well-chosen. These hobbits are not so careless and dull as you believe.”

“I _crave_ to be proven wrong,” Thorin declared, quite mockingly. “At least it would save me from being bored to death here.”

“Should you die, we’ll be comforted by the knowledge that there is an heir to Erebor in your nephew Fíli,” Balin commented matter-of-factly.

Dwalin laughed at that, but Thorin decided to not argue further. During their whole journey he had been already lectured on the opportunity of being more well-disposed toward these _hobbits_ of the Shire, in order to profit from their visit to their lands and learn something about diplomacy. This had hardly made the whole business less insufferable - negotiating with the Thain and the Mayor only to find himself scrutinised by dozens and dozens of plump creatures with hairy feet.

By the end of  his first day in the Shire, Thorin had definitely not grown to distrust melekûnh as much as he distrusted khuthûzh; but he already felt inclined to despise them as feeble creatures, soft of body and mind. Hobbits spoke too much, fussed about details, and they had no concept of grandeur, let alone bravery or audacity; instead they were full of quirks and hollow words, their voices so delicate that Khuzdul would have broken them. In conclusion they annoyed Thorin to no end with their fastidiousness and their ill-concealed tendency to meddle.

He was still musing about it when Dwalin called out.

“There, it matches the Thain’s description!” he said, pointing at the summit of the nearest hill.

“It might very well be,” Balin admitted.

Thorin said nothing, since the Thain’s instructions had been quite murky to him. It was not - mind you - that the dwarf prince had a poor sense of orientation: he was perfectly able to move through Erebor’s maze of corridors and stairs and halls, and he seldom lost his way in Dale or through the Greenwood. But the Thain had spoken about a certain tree with a trunk half burnt from a thunderbolt; of a shrine dedicated to Yavanna made from river stones and adorned with peach flowers; of a smial with a round door freshly painted in green. Little of that made sense to Thorin: he was not used to looking at trees or flowers to find his way, least of all at the colour or shape of halflings’ doors.

They made their way up to the hill, the road bending to climb the sweet slope almost to its top. There was a house under the hill, in the fashion of the Shire - built under the earth, but not too deep into it, with round windows opening on the hillside. Thorin noticed little else about the house, but he did not miss the small figure working in the garden annexed to the house. They had all dismounted from their ponies by then, but the halfling kneeling in the garden did not give any sign of having noticed their arrival.

Thorin would have not been able to explain why he decided to go first, when he could have let Balin speak in his place. He might have wanted to prove his old friend wrong - to demonstrate that he did not need any advice about how to deal with melekûnh or any other race. Maybe he was simply bored and yearned to do something - _anything_ , even speak to an halfling.

The garden was a small thing, but crammed with plants - the air was thick from their smells. Thorin wrinkled his nose, casting a swift glance at the profusion of leaves, flowers and other things sprouting from the ground; then he approached the creature in the garden, gesturing to Balin and Dwalin to wait for him.

The halfling was humming, but he stopped as soon as Thorin’s shadow fell upon him. He seemed startled and immediately turned his head to look at Thorin. He must have been informed of the dwarves’ arrival, for he seemed to recover quickly from his surprise and he rose to his feet.

“Good evening,” the halfling bade Thorin, rubbing his hands together to wipe away some dirt from his fingers. “I am sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he confessed, despite the fact that he did not seem really troubled by having been surprised at work in the garden.

For his part, Thorin could hardly think of anything more improper and humiliating than being welcomed by the gardener. Master Baggins’ manners would have to answer for that.

The dwarf prince took a look at the melekûn. He had light brown curls, as was common among the Shire’s people; they were tousled and damp from his endeavours with the plants. He was a head shorter than Thorin and certainly weaker than any khuzdinh; the halfling’s shirt was stretched over a soft belly and he had round, rosy cheeks - now smeared with dirt. He was dressed in plain clothes, with his shirt’s sleeves rolled at the elbows, and naked calves and feet showing.

“Where’s your master?” Thorin asked the halfling, without bothering to keep the contempt out of his voice.

The halfling tilted his head, looking at Thorin strangely, as if he had not understood the question. Thorin wondered if the gardener might be deaf or a lackwit - it would account for the soft stupor on the halfling’s face.

“Take us to your master,” Thorin repeated, reciting each syllable clearly and gesturing toward the house.

“I have no master other than myself,” the halfling replied then. Now even Thorin could recognise the look on the halfling’s face as annoyance. “And you would have discovered it soon enough, if you had bothered to introduce yourself and ask my name first, rather than taking me for a servant.”

Thorin blinked and suddenly realised how much he had been deceived by the halfling’s look.

“ _You_ are Master Baggins,” he said, unable to sound less irritated than he felt.

“At your service,” the halfling replied with a curt nod.

The prince suspected that the small creature did not mean it in the least.

“I would have not been misled had you looked less like a gardener,” he pointed out, feeling obliged to keep his ground against Master Baggins.

“If I had not been tending to my garden, I would have had to send you dwarves to bed without dinner,” the halfling answered, smoothly enough.

Thorin gaped, but he could not think of any adequate reply. The mere thought that a simple creature like this Master Baggins could dare speak to Erebor’s heir in such a way enraged him. He was bound by the laws of hospitality, but he would be damned before he would permit a melekûn to abuse him with his sharp-tongued remarks.

Master Baggins had spoken to them, fiery Khazâd from one of the mightiest zudûn in Middle-Earth, as if they were riotous children. And the brashness of talking about _beds_ to a complete stranger! Thorin was so befuddled that he did not know how to react, apart from frowning and glaring. Fortunately Balin appeared at his side and the halfling’s bold gaze turned to him.

“My name is Balin,” he said. Thorin noticed with some displeasure that Balin had left out his titles. “And I accompany...”

“Prince Thorin of Erebor, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, of Durin’s lineage,” Thorin preceded Balin, pointedly reciting his formal title. But when Master Baggins’ eyes lit up with amusement, the prince felt ridiculous and averted his eyes from the halfling’s gaze, feigning a sudden interest in the nearest strawberry bush.

“And this is my brother Dwalin,” Balin continued, when the third dwarf joined them. “We are here...”

“Sent by the Thain,” Master Baggins concluded in Balin’s place. “I recognised you.”

“You _did_ know us?” Thorin asked, surprised: the melekûn had just scolded him for the lack of a proper introduction, hadn’t he?  

“I was in the hall as was any other hobbit from here to Michel Delving, though I left early to prepare my house for your arrival.”

Thorin tried to recall Master Baggins’ face among the many he had seen. It was impossible, obviously: melekûnh looked all the same to him. There was nothing remarkable to distinguish Master Baggins from any other halfling - except his disconcerting manners.

Was the Thain trying to humiliate them with such a host?

“You were there,” Thorin said bluntly, for want of something to say.

“Yes, but we were not properly introduced,” the halfling answered, with a half-smile. Before Thorin could decide how to react, Master Baggins leant to grab a wicker basket filled with vegetables. “Bilbo Baggins at your service,” he said, holding the basket with both his hands. “Please, follow me. I should not have made you wait out here, but in Bag End you will find everything you need to recover from the fatigues of your journey and the meeting with the Thain,” Master Baggins promised, beaming at them.

As soon as the halfling had turned his back to lead them to the green door, Balin shot a hard glance at the prince. Thorin snorted, but said nothing: later he would have time to defend his opinion on their host and his frankly appalling manner. And he knew what Balin would answer to that - he would remind him of his duty and try to convince him that he had misjudged Master Baggins. _Biased_ was a recurring word in Balin’s reproaches, but Thorin did not feel so; he simply observed these melekûnh and their life-style, and found it clearly inferior to his standards as Khuzd.

“Most of your baggage has already been carried to your rooms,” Master Baggins said as soon as the three dwarves entered his house and he had closed the door behind them. “And you will find towels, soap, and warm water to wash away the dust from your journey. I’ll be in the kitchen preparing dinner should you need anything.”

Thorin barely kept himself from a bitter retort. Did the melekûn think that they would run to him like children to their mother to be soothed and comforted from their rough journey across Middle-Earth? Did he believe his hospitality could equal Erebor’s? If he did, he was the greatest fool in the Shire.

The halfling showed Dwalin and Balin to the room they would share, and then led Thorin to the nearest room. Thorin suddenly realised that the halfling had never looked at him while he was offering them a brief tour of his house. _Kitchen, pantry, drawing room, bathroom, door-to-the-backyard-garden_ \- well, in truth Thorin had not listened nor observed, impatient to be relieved from the petulant voice of their host. But now that he was showing Thorin his room, Master Baggins’ eyes flew again to the prince’s face.

“If Your Highness had been disappointed in our first encounter, on the morrow I could arrange for Your Highness to meet Master Holman, who is an actual gardener and helps me with my plants,” the halfling said. “I am sure he would be thrilled at the idea of meeting a real prince.”

He was not laughing, but his tone was so polite and deferential that it sounded mocking to Thorin’s ears. The dwarf felt his temper rise, as well as the colour in his cheeks.

“I realise I have been mistaken, Master Baggins,” Thorin replied, smoothing his voice from the hard edges of his wounded pride. “In fact, you look more like a grocer,” he added, letting his eyes roam over their host’s plump figure, from his naked feet to his beardless face.

He found Master Baggins’ eyes large with surprise; from the blush that appeared on the halfling’s cheeks Thorin knew he had repaid Master Baggins for the offence.

“I have a dinner to prepare,” the halfling said and turned on his heels, leaving Thorin alone at last.

The prince frowned. With no little surprise he realised that he was disappointed in Master Baggins’ retreat. He had anticipated another rude answer; instead he had won the battle without further damage to his pride. Thorin shook his head and entered his room, still musing about the fact that the halfling had failed to ask his permission to leave.

When he finally dedicated some attention to his room, Thorin found it exceptionally poor. It was not so different from the rooms they had taken in Bree - _cleaner_ , though. It was small, the ceiling not high enough to relieve Thorin from the sensation of being trapped in Balin’s fool idea that melekûnh may ever become valuable allies for Khazâd. The room was mostly made from wood, and the furniture was sparse and mediocre; there was no sign of gold or other precious metals, let alone gemstones. There were some carvings - on the headrest of the large bed and over the mantelpiece of the small fireplace; but they were childish decorations with vines and fruits, far removed from the sophisticated geometric patterns Khazâd favoured.

There was a wooden tub in the room, a large pot of water hanging over the fire, and a piece of white soap placed on top of a pile of towels. Thorin began undressing. He recalled that their host had vaguely hinted at the fact that he did not like heavy dwarf boots on his floors and rugs - when he took off his boots, Thorin found some pleasure in the idea that they had probably soiled the melekûn’s carpets with mud. The little creature was probably worried out of his mind about the state of his furniture in Khazâd hands. In truth, most of the things in the room looked frail enough to be easily crushed by Thorin’s hold.

Stark naked, Thorin filled the wooden tub with the water from the pot, mixing the boiling water with the cold water already in the wooden tub. Unfortunately the tub was too small to accommodate Thorin, but the dwarf stood on his feet unbothered by the amount of water spilling on the floor. For the first time since they had reached the Shire, Thorin stopped thinking about hobbits and simply enjoyed the pleasure of scrubbing away sweat and mud.

The soap had a strange, sweetish smell; Thorin tried to ignore it and rubbed his soapy hand between his legs, where the long weeks of riding on a pony’s back had roughened his skin. He examined a minor wound his last sparring with Dwalin had left on his left arm and he was glad to see that it was healing perfectly well.

Thorin devoted particular attention to washing his long, dark hair. He kept his beard cut short as warning and remembrance of the circumstances in which he had lost his braids. Therefore, the prince usually dedicated great care to his hair, braiding it with the beads symbolising his status and affections. While loosening his braids, Thorin hoped that the smell of the soap their host had provided would soon vanish from them. In Erebor he would have had scented oils at his disposal, and his hair would acquire the warm, musky smell Khazâd preferred. Some of the oils were so precious that only royalty would use them: one of Thorin’s first memories was of his grandmother choosing a precious scent among the many metal and glass vessels she hoarded in her rooms to braid her husband’s glorious hair.

But Thorin was in the Shire now, where most of the melekûnh he had seen kept their hair short. Some of their females indulged in braiding and wore flowers or beads, but he understood it was nothing more than vanity; there was no meaning to it, as to any other aspect of the halflings’ behaviour.

Thorin redid his braids carefully and secured them with his traditional beads. His sister had braided his hair before his departure from Erebor, while they were still discussing his travel to the Shire. Thorin had hoped to convince Dís to back his refusal to leave the Mountain, but his sister had only taken care of his hair and then thrown him out of her quarters. Not even the idea that Thorin would not be back in Erebor in time for the birth of her and Víli’s second son had moved Dis. In truth, only young Fíli had seemed truly concerned with his uncle’s departure, but he had soon forgotten his displeasure when Dís had promised him that uncle Thorin would come back with some gifts for him from the exotic Shire.

Thorin snorted at the thought - he had to remember to find some present for Fíli, but he doubted that the melekûnh could sell him anything worth his gold. The sole value of the belt Thorin chose to wear over his blue velvet tunic could probably buy Master Baggins’ house, furniture included. The belt - dark leather and a mithril buckle decorated with sapphires and moonstones - was a fine thing, one of the few Thorin had indulged in for his otherwise quite sparse luggage..

“I smell of flowers,” Dwalin grunted, just outside Thorin’s door.

The prince laughed and opened the door, only to find his friend sniffing at his own hands.

“I truly hope it’s you smelling of flowers, or it would mean that we will be served flowers for dinner,” Thorin commented, making some pretence of smelling the air around him.

“In good damn time, Thorin,” Dwalin grunted. “Balin has already reached our host in the dining room: my brother seems impatient to question him about the local customs.”

“Or rather to warn him about the two of us,” Thorin insinuated. “Something along the lines of how the melekûn should not worry about being so evidently unworthy of our company.”

“You’ve really taken a dislike to him, haven’t you?” Dwalin wondered, looking at Thorin strangely.

“Haven’t you?” Thorin asked back, frowning.

“He’s a melekûn,” Dwalin shrugged. “I am not sure I understand anything of their customs, let alone the way they speak here in the West. But, concerning our host, I suppose it’s too early to decide if he will try to kill us in our sleep.”

Thorin laughed again at that, but he let the matter rest. He was quite put off by Dwalin’s mild impression of Master Baggins; Thorin, on the contrary, already felt ill-disposed toward their host. But after all, he had been the only one to exchange some words with Master Baggins. Soon even Balin and Dwalin would realise how unpleasant their host was.

Despite some doubt about which direction they should take in the quite large house, the two dwarves entered the dining room to find Balin comfortably seated at the table, and Master Baggins still fretting with pots and plates.

“Oh, you’re here,” the halfling commented upon their appearance. “Please, take a seat.”

Thorin was surprised by the long table which had been fitted into the dining room. He had already gathered the impression that Master Baggins lived alone - in truth he remembered the Thain saying something about how in Bag End there would not be an entire hobbit family intruding upon them. Yet the house was quite a spacious one: there were more than a couple of bedrooms, for instance, and the table was definitely too large for a halfling alone. Maybe, Thorin thought, the melekûn was used to entertaining many guests.

At any rate, Thorin had to concede that the halfling’s efforts to serve them a proper dinner were quite impressive. Almost half of the expanse of the table, which could have accommodated up to a dozen dwarves, was covered in a myriad of dishes. Thorin recognised only some of the courses, but what he saw was enough to make his mouth water. He had not realised he was so hungry, and the halfling prayed them to begin their dinner while he was taking care of the last batch of cookies in the oven.

Thorin opened his mouth, trying to come up with something sharp to say; but the richness and variety of the food laid out on the table distracted him. He saw Balin looking quite smug, while Dwalin started filling his plate with everything he could reach.

Thorin was still frowning when Master Baggins looked at them over his shoulder.

“Is anything to your taste, Your Highness?” the halfling asked Thorin. “I do not know your preferences so I decided to cook some of everything. But I’d be glad to learn something about the sort of food you favour, therefore do not hesitate to make your requests.”

Thorin tried again to speak, but Balin preceded him.

“It’s very kind on your part, Master Baggins,” he said. “And at least my brother does not seem to find any complaint with your cooking skills.”

Dwalin looked up from the roasted chicken leg he was wolfing down. Master Baggins shot him a broad smile and presented Dwalin with the tray of cookies he had just taken out of the oven.

“Cookie?” the halfling offered. “Beware, they are still very hot.”

Dwalin mumbled something about being used to the temperature of Erebor’s forges and took a cookie. From the sound he made while chewing it, Thorin guessed that Dwalin had been just won over by their host’s cookies. _Bribed with food, indeed!_ , Thorin thought, growing even more annoyed with their host.

He observed Master Baggins while he moved the cookies from the tray to a glass jar, and then placed it within Dwalin’s reach. The halfling wore an apron over his clothes, like a common innkeeper. When he took it off, Thorin guessed that Master Baggins had made some endeavour to look elegant. The notion was obviously absurd: the melekûn was dressed in a clean white shirt and still too-short brownish trousers; but he had chosen a bright coloured waistcoat, yellow with some embroideries in white. It made him look like a fool, clad in flamboyant attire which seemed to underline his vulgarity. And that piece of cloth he carried in his breast-pocket!

It was then that the halfling took notice of Thorin’s smirk and his expression immediately darkened.

“Is Your Highness unwell?” Master Baggins asked.

When he saw the halfling fidgeting with a button of his waistcoat Thorin wondered if he had guessed his train of thought.

“I prefer not to touch food before the host is seated,” Thorin answered.

He did not know why he had said that, but it seemed to please Master Baggins, and the halfling soon took his place at the table. He had reserved for Thorin the main seat at the head, with Dwalin and Balin at his side; while he sat at Balin’s other side.

“Thank you,” the halfling said to Thorin, with a brief smile.

“We’re very grateful for the large dinner you have prepared for us,” Balin chimed in. “You must have spent many hours in order to prepare all this,” he commented.

Thorin was under the impression that his old friend was urging his attention to the opulence of the dinner they were being served; he decided to ignore Balin’s implied suggestion.

“Don’t speak of it,” Master Baggins said, with the air of someone who would have appreciated more praises. _Little hypocrite_ , Thorin accused him in his mind. “We hobbits greatly enjoy eating: I do not know of any other folks eating up to seven meals a day, as we hobbits do.”

“ _Seven_?” Thorin exclaimed, despite himself.

Master Baggins nodded and smiled.

“Exactly. So we do a lot of cooking for ourselves; plus, we truly appreciate guests as long as they are not unexpected,” he explained, waving his index finger while speaking. “Besides, I love cooking,” he added, as a second thought.

“So this dinner could be hardly considered an effort on your part,” Thorin commented dryly.

“What do you call these?” Balin asked fretfully, probably grabbing the first thing in his sight. It was a plate filled with tiny, whitish pieces of bread.

“ _Scones_ ,” Master Baggins said, still looking at Thorin. “They are usually served with tea in the afternoon, but I thought you would like to try them. If you like them, there will be more for breakfast tomorrow. And no, it would not be an effort on my part.”

Thorin was bounded to hold the melekûn’s gaze. He could not lower his eyes first, but he was grateful when Dwalin reached out for a jar of pickles, and hid Master Baggins from Thorin’s sight. When Thorin could look at the halfling again, Master Baggins was engaged in conversation with Balin about the seven meals in a hobbit day. Thorin decided it would be unwise to starve just to scorn their host.

There were three different types of soup: turnip, pea, and one made with sweet potatoes and carrots. For the main course there were meat pies whose crust was golden and brown, and still scalding to the touch; simple, round seed and honey cakes; salt meat filled with a layer of tender goat cheese, then wrapped in odorous leaves; pork with fried apples; small pickled fishes to eat with a yellow sauce made from eggs and parsley. There were vegetables: slices of aubergines roasted with herbs and served with dark gravy; fresh small tomatoes, and potatoes cooked in butter and cheese. Thorin counted five types of bread; two kinds of honey - dark and golden; six diverse types of cheese - some white and sweetish, others yellow and savoury. And there were desserts too: several fruit cakes, a glorious rhubarb tart, raspberry pudding, cookies with currants and cookies with almonds, a cake which had the taste of the cider Master Baggins served them. They also drank a light brew of ale and dark tea. Some of the dishes Thorin already knew; others Master Baggins spoke of with Balin, teaching the dwarves the names for this and that.

“You are truly a remarkable cook, Master Baggins,” Balin declared, well before they had finished their dinner.

“And you have a remarkable appetite,” Dwalin pointed out. “I would have never guessed that a melekûn could eat that much, not even when you talked about your seven meals per day.”

Balin scowled at his brother for his blunt comment, but the halfling did not seem offended. In fact, he took a sip of cider and proudly patted his round belly.

“I would not say that I enjoy a warm meal more than my books, but surely I do not enjoy it less,” he confessed, smiling. “In spring, when I sit on the bench just outside the door of Bag End, reading some book and smoking my pipe, listening to the buzz of bees and knowing my pantry is filled with food...oh, I’m convinced there is no one happier than me in Middle-Earth.”

Thorin swallowed down a morsel of rhubarb tart and frowned at Master Baggins’ words. They were possibly the most naive perspective on life he had ever heard; there was no space for heroism or ambition in the melekûn’s vision, neither for responsibilities.

It offended Thorin.

He could not accept that someone could live his life in such a foolish way: Master Baggins was parading his inexperience of the world as if he took pride in it. It was a surprise that the melekûn, with his pathetic delusions, could have survived so many winters.

“What does... _melekan_ mean?” Master Baggins asked Dwalin, interrupting Thorin’s reflections.

“Halfling,” Thorin replied in Dwalin’s place.

The word seemed to hit a weak spot, and Master Baggins’ eyes immediately turned to Thorin.

“I am not half of anything, Your Highness,” he said, his voice surprisingly cold considering he had been so cheerful just a moment before.

“Isn’t it the most common word used in Westron to refer to your kin?” Thorin asked, feigning innocence.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” the melekûn admitted, “but I thought Your Highness would not want to side with anything common,” he insinuated, and Thorin would have sworn that Balin was _sniggering_ at that.

“Anyway, it’s _melekûn_ ,” Dwalin mumbled, before filling his mouth with cookies.

Thorin glared at Dwalin. Khuzdul was a language created by Khazâd for Khazâd, with Aulë Mahal’s blessing: it was not to be wasted on a melekûn who could hardly grasp the sound of the syllables Khazâd pronounced when speaking their antique, sacred language. In the past Khazâd went so far as to avoid speaking Khuzdul in the presence of other races, in order to conserve its sound and meaning for their sole kin. Times had changed, and Thorin might have already indulged in Khuzdul while in Master Baggins’ house, but he did not intend to let the halfling pollute their language with his tongue.

Yet Dwalin did not seem to give too much thought to Thorin’s hard glance:

“And we call ourselves _Khazâd_ ,” Dwalin continued, unruffled.

Master Baggins’ eyes brightened at that, as if the topic had caught his full attention. He was so evidently impatient to question them over Khuzdul that Thorin saw no other alternative - really, he could not allow their dinner to turn into a lesson in Khuzdul for the halfling.

“This is quite good,” he stated, holding the plate with the remnants of the rhubarb tart.

The effect was immediate. It might have been related to the fact that Balin and Dwalin had been quite vocal about their appreciation for the dinner - the former in words, the latter in grunts and humming, but Thorin had stubbornly kept himself from complimenting Master Baggins on the quality of the dinner. Thus Thorin’s unexpected comment actually managed to steal not only their host’s attention, but even Dwalin’s and Balin’s. They all regarded Thorin suspiciously, as if they could barely believe they had heard him formulating a compliment - very sparse, and impersonal, but nonetheless a compliment.  

“I’m pleased to hear that,” the halfling replied at last, cautiously. “And I hope you have found your rooms as satisfying as this dinner,” he continued, growing a little more confident - _boasting again_ , Thorin thought. “I had Master Holman help me with the water for your ablutions. And with the fireplaces. They had not been used in a while and the chimneys needed some maintenance. It’s Spring and the rooms hardly need to be overheated, but I supposed you would appreciate warm water at your disposal.”

“In Erebor most of the living quarters are provided with running hot water from the pipe system,” Thorin said, looking at Master Baggins. He felt quite satisfied by the sight of the halfling growing flustered at the interruption. “As you may guess,” Thorin continued, almost smiling, “our knowledge in all engineering matters, hydraulic included, is exceedingly sophisticated.”

At the corner of his eye, Thorin saw Balin on the verge of opening his mouth, but their host raised his hand as if to reassure Balin about his ability to entertain a conversation with Thorin without any help.

“It sounds...prodigious,” the melekûn admitted. He tilted his head. “I have never heard of anything similar before. I know that in their greatest cities men have built conduits to dispose of any foul waste, but this...this is truly remarkable. I suppose you use great fires to keep the water warm, but how do you carry it around your Erebor?” the halfling asked. “Please, tell me more about it.”

Thorin vaguely noticed that Master Baggins had put his elbows on the table and folded his hands under his chin - it was a bizarre and coquettish pose that Thorin should have openly despised, had he not been more impatient to give evidence of the superiority of Khazâd engineering.

The sewers of the men’s cities were primitive devices compared to the achievements in Erebor, and even the melekûn deserved to know that. Despite the obvious fact that Master Baggins understood nothing of hydraulics, Thorin felt compelled to indulge their host’s desire to know more about Erebor. He could not possibly approve of the halfling’s interest in Khuzdul, but it was Thorin’s duty as prince to instruct the halfling on the accomplishments of the Khazâd.

Thus Thorin found himself talking about Erebor and the splendid devices which were in use in the Mountain. He did not linger on technicalities, but he strived to give Master Baggins the gist of how some of the machines worked, beginning with the hot water system and ending with the apparatus they used in the mines to lift even the heaviest loads from the pits.

Meanwhile their host began cleaning the table, firmly refusing any help from Balin. Although Master Baggins kept moving between the table and the kitchen sink carrying empty plates and bowls, Thorin had no reason to question the halfling’s attention. In fact, Master Baggins answered any explanation with new questions, and they were all poignant enough to force Thorin to talk some more.

The dwarf prince was not unaware of Balin’s increasingly pleased expression; he also knew that he was probably talking too much and already betraying his resolve of expressing his disdain for halflings at any occasion. Yet he could not stop. Yes, his voice was rough and he did not answer Master Baggins’ frequent smiles, nor did Thorin miss the chance to mock the Shire’s ways from time to time; nevertheless Thorin was talking and he could barely conceal his eagerness in that regard.

Cold and reserved, generally described as taciturn if not downright reticent, Thorin revealed his eloquence when speaking about Erebor. Talking about his home, Thorin’s speech gained a passionate quality which was never manifested otherwise. And now that Thorin was so far from Erebor, his longing sharpened his fervour: it took him some time to realise that the table was perfectly clean of the remnants of the dinner. Master Baggins had served them another round of tea. Leaning lazily onto the cupboard and with his hands curled around his own cup of tea, the melekûn was observing Thorin with the utmost concentration.

Thorin’s attention wavered and he lost the trail of what he was saying. He suddenly felt embarrassed, looked away and closed his mouth tightly.

“I think we should retire for the night,” Balin intervened, as if he had divined Thorin’s change of mood.

“Oh, I am very sorry!” the halfling exclaimed, shaking his head and putting down his cup. “It was very inopportune of me to keep you all from your rest: we hobbits love to stay up til late and rest in our beds longer in the morning, but you should pay no mind to my habits.”

“With pleasure,” Thorin grunted under his breath, but his voice was drowned by Balin’s.

“Please, do not worry about it, Master Baggins,” the old dwarf reassured their host. “It has been a very interesting conversation,” he added, casting a glance in Thorin’s direction.

But the dwarf prince decided to take no notice of it and he rose from the table, followed by Dwalin: Balin was forced to do the same. Soon enough the dwarves were bidding their host a good night - at least Balin was, Dwalin patted Master Baggins’ back so forcefully that the halfling seemed on the verge of losing his balance; Thorin nodded curtly.

 

“The melekûn was quite taken with your fancy speech there,” Dwalin remarked, as soon as Balin left them alone in the corridor.

The comment was enough to make Thorin feel unpleasantly exposed, as if he had been caught in some humiliating circumstance. Not only was he displeased with Dwalin’s observation, but he feared he had spoken too openly of his love for Erebor: the sole thought that the halfling might have gained some insight into his emotions, and that he might have appeared ingenuous and sentimental, tormented him.

Hence the harshness of Thorin’s reply to Dwalin:

“Don’t be so disgustingly naive,” Thorin said, gritting his teeth. “Are you so easily deceived?”

“What are you bloody talking about?” Dwalin asked, frowning.

“As if these halflings might have any real interest apart from gardening and gossiping,” Thorin snorted.

“Baggins seemed sincere,” the other dwarf pointed out, but Thorin thought it a feeble defence.

“He was acting,” he declared, shrugging. “His kin know nothing of the world outside the Shire. He said so himself, didn’t he? He would be quite content with rotting on a bench just outside his door. He lacks ambition, and he’s more inexperienced than the youngest khuzdûn in Erebor.”

“Why was he asking so many questions then?” Dwalin asked, caressing his beard.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Thorin answered with contempt. “He was parading his politeness before his guests. He wants to convince us of his interest in Erebor; however it was but an exercise of conversation for him. Have you noticed how particular he is? His sole concern is proving himself the perfect host,” Thorin continued, his voice thick with irritation. “If you had paid more attention to the manners of the Shire, you would have already understood that these _hobbits_ are conceited. They like to think themselves well-mannered and high-bred, but they are only flaunting and preening - behind their fussy behaviour, their knick-knacks and their _please_ and _thank you_ , there’s nothing else.”

“So you think Baggins was fishing for your approval?” Dwalin inquired, frowning deeply.

Thorin would have answered if said Master Baggins had not appeared from nowhere. The dwarf prince could not really hide his surprise: the halfling had sneaked upon them unheard. _Ambushed by a grocer indeed_ , Thorin thought with annoyance.

“I wonder if you may need more towels or blankets,” Master Baggins said, but his gaze was slightly unfocused and he seemed much more interested in a point over Dwalin’s shoulder than in their faces.

“No,” Thorin said, his voice coming out a little huskily.

“Then I bid you good night,” the halfling replied.

For a moment he seemed on the verge of saying more, but he closed his mouth tightly and turned on his heel. His eyes met Thorin’s, but it was a fleeting instant and the dwarf could not fathom Master Baggins’ feelings.

“Do you think he heard us?” Dwalin asked, after a while, giving voice to Thorin’s own doubts.

“I don’t care,” the prince spat. “He should not have spied on us,” he added grimly.

 

In truth, when Thorin found himself alone in his room, he felt nervous. If the halfling had eavesdropped on his conversation with Dwalin, he had deserved what he had got from it; besides Thorin was unwilling to take back his words - he was right, and the halfling had just listened to the truth. It was better this way, without any misunderstanding about Thorin’s true feelings for their host. Moreover, as if to confirm the prince’s opinion, Master Baggins had not confronted him: a brave, honest creature would have challenged Thorin’s judgement and tried to defend his honour; but the melekûn was craven, and guilty.

Still Thorin was nervous. To his discomfort he registered this feelings as _humiliation_ : yes, he had felt quite humiliated by the halfling’s sudden appearance - _a prince of Erebor should not be spied upon_ , he repeated to himself. In this troubled state of mind Thorin drifted into sleep at last, accompanied by the image of their host.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuthûzh : elves  
> Khuzd / Khazâd : dwarf / dwarves  
> Khuzdinh : dwarf-lady  
> Khuzdûn : dwarf-man  
> Melekhit : young hobbit  
> Melekûn / melekûnh : hobbit / hobbits  
> Zudûn : realms


	2. Why Cant’ Hobbits Learn to Speak Khuzdul?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title inspired to "[Why Can't the English Learn to Speak](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EAYUuspQ6BY)".

Thorin had always been used to waking up early in the morning. Many Khazâd preferred to start their day as soon as possible: living in the depths of the Lonely Mountain made it more convenient to put the daylight hours to good use. It changed nothing for those working in the mines, but some of Erebor’s quarters profited from the natural light.

However Thorin was an early riser even for a Khuzd. It was partly from his sense of duty; he had always been deeply aware of his responsibilities, and he was generally too impatient to get to work to linger in bed when he could devote his time to Erebor. Besides (this Thorin had never confessed to anyone) he liked being awake while most were still asleep. He found those hours of pure solitude soothing, and loved to hear the faint sounds of the Mountain awakening. It was like observing a wild beast emerging from darkness and being domesticated into light and order.

During their journey to the Shire Thorin had hardly changed his habits, and even that first morning in Bag End he woke up at dawn and was soon out of bed - Thorin ascribed his disturbed sleep to its softness. He peed, then poured cold water from a pitcher in a wood basin, and washed his face and torso. While he was wiping his skin with a towel, Thorin took a look at the round window looking upon Master Baggins’ garden.

A fine morning mist covered the plants, shining with the iridescences of a pearl in the dawn light. The sight, though hardly breath-taking, left Thorin with the desire to go outside as soon as possible. Without any halfling around, the Shire seemed even appealing and according to Master Baggins’ words few melekûnh were likely to be awake so early.

Thorin decided that he would take a walk in the neighbourhood: it would loosen his muscles, sore from the days of riding, and it would do him good to be out of Master Baggins’ house for a couple of hours. In fact, Thorin planned to avoid breaking his fast with their host. It would be sufficient to eat something alone in the kitchen, and then he would be out of the green door before anyone could notice. Dwalin and Balin knew his morning habits and they would not be surprised by his absence; while Master Baggins - well, their host’s opinion did not interest Thorin.

The prince put on his trousers and left his room. The house was quiet and Thorin could not keep himself from smiling - it was a good plan, and it would save his patience for the long hours of the meeting with the Thain which would take place later in the morning.

But Thorin’s plan was headed for failure.

Thorin had never dealt particularly well with the unexpected. He was resourceful in his own way, but he did not like anything that contradicted his perspective. He tended to consider each obstacle to his plans a personal slight, and he usually reacted with obstinate resentment.

Therefore, when Thorin found Master Baggins peacefully installed in his own kitchen and busy with cooking, he regarded the fact as further proof of the halfling’s viciousness.

“You,” Thorin growled, taking a couple of steps in the kitchen and then stopping again.

Master Baggins did not seem taken by surprise by Thorin’s arrival, as if he had heard the dwarf’s approach. He simply turned his head and cast Thorin a glance over his shoulder.

“Oh, good morning, Your Highness,” he greeted the prince. But his voice, so collected at first, dropped down as soon as he took in Thorin’s figure. “Oh, I am very sorry, I did not mean...” the halfling babbled.

In the haste of taking his eyes off Thorin, the melekûn dropped a wooden spoon on the floor. When he crouched to retrieve it, he bumped his head against the edge of the table and let out a moan of pain. Thorin would have laughed at it if he had not been so baffled by the halfling’s hectic behaviour. In truth the prince had taken another step toward Master Baggins when he had seen his head hitting the table, but then he had restrained himself - he would not run to the melekûn’s help, for Mahal’s sake!

Besides, Thorin did not know what to do with the halfling’s sudden shyness. Had Master Baggins realised that his presence in the kitchen was inopportune?

“I am sorry, I didn’t want to intrude upon...” the halfling was back on his feet, gently massaging his bruised forehead, “...upon your _chest_ ,” he concluded, quite breathlessly.

Thorin blinked. He eventually grasped the reason Master Baggins’ cheeks had grown so red, and why the halfling was looking anywhere but at him. The thought that the melekûn was shying away from the sight of his naked chest did not embarrass Thorin - in fact it made him extraordinarily annoyed with Master Baggins. It was evident that the melekûn listed prudishness among his many flaws; Thorin could barely stand it, and this time he laughed scornfully at the halfling’s coyness.

“Stop with your maiden’s blushing,” Thorin snarled. “Are melekûnh born with clothes?”

“Well, you’re hardly a baby,” the halfling replied, his voice less uncertain but the blush still not receding. “And you’re not even a hobbit, but a... _Khazâd_?”

“Khuzd,” Thorin corrected him instinctively. “So is the sight so different that you cannot endure it?” he asked, surprised by his own teasing tone.

Thorin was still resolute to hold Master Baggins’ priggishness in contempt, but he could not help finding the halfling’s attempts at entertaining a polite conversation quite amusing. He had not meant to tease but rather to scorn, yet it was too late to take back his words.

“Oh no,” the melekûn protested, shaking his head, then he stilled again when his eyes caught another unfortunate glimpse of Thorin’s large and hairy chest. “Your nakedness seems perfectly fine to me. Not that I have examined it! Nor would I do that; but in a purely hypothetical way, I would say that your _things_ , your body parts I mean, are well proportioned and very...very royal?”

Thorin had to bite his tongue to keep himself from laughing heartily at the halfling’s gibber. He snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, vaguely noticing how the simple shift in his pose alarmed Master Baggins and forced him to look at the ceiling.

“ _Very royal_?” Thorin repeated. “I wasn’t aware of your experience with many royals in the Shire.”

The melekûn opened his mouth to say something, frowned, and eventually a vague smile appeared on his mouth.

“Now you’re making fun of me, Your Highness,” he stated cheerfully. “At least I can add another line to my experience with royalty: _even princes tease, and smile_ ,” Master Baggins recited, as if he was reading it from an invisible book opened before his eyes.

It was Thorin’s turn to frown. He had been unaware of his smile - and why did the halfling feel any need to remark upon it? It was something Dís did from time to time when she felt particularly witty or mischievious. It made a strange impression on Thorin that the melekûn should remind him of his sister: it was annoying and unsettling at the same time.

“I wasn’t smiling,” he answered, as he always did when it was Dís teasing him.

“You were,” Master Baggins retorted, flashing a smile at him before turning again to avoid looking at him. “Anyway, I am sorry for my reaction at your appearance. Your...your chest was unexpected. There’s nothing wrong with it from the brief glimpse I had of it,” he admitted, in that prattling fashion that Thorin began to think of as Master Baggins’ own. “But in the Shire we have a penchant for dressing gowns.”

Thorin understood that the halfling was referring to what he was wearing at the moment: the prince knew some men wore similar garments in the privacy of their houses, but he had never seen a _dressing gown_ so colourful. And never had a man looked so proud of it as Master Baggins did. It irritated Thorin, as did anything else which spoke of the halfling’s love of comforts.

“Should I dress then?” Thorin asked abruptly.

“For my sake? No, not at all. I understand that our sensibilities about dressing gowns might be very different,” Master Baggins said, as if he had guessed Thorin’s thoughts. “You’re my guest and I would not impose my point of view on the matter upon you, though I think you’re likely to catch a cold.”

Once again Thorin felt the urge to laugh. The halfling was no longer trying not to look at him now, and his expression was one of concern, but the idea of a Khuzd catching a cold in a melekûn’s kitchen was truly ridiculous. What was even more odd was that Master Baggins had surprised him again. Thorin had been ready to be encouraged to dress - it would have demonstrated the halfling’s prudishness and given him an excuse to retire to his rooms with a new motif of contempt for their host. Instead Master Baggins had persevered in his desire to be the ideal host.

“In other words,” the halfling continued, before Thorin’s silence, “I have nothing against seeing you naked. _Wait_. This hasn’t come out as it should have: I mean that you can take off your shirt whenever you - oh, bother!” he huffed, turning red again.

“Why are you up so early?” Thorin inquired all of sudden. He had been so distracted with the halfling’s discomfort that he had almost forgotten that their host was not supposed to be awake at such an early hour. “You said melekûnh prefer to stay in bed longer,” the dwarf said, almost accusingly.

“True enough. But, you see, last night I realised that there wouldn’t be any lemon curd left. You seemed to appreciate it at dinner, I thought you could do with more for breakfast.”

Thorin slightly turned his head, taking his eyes off Master Baggins. His partiality for the soft, vaguely bitter cream that the melekûn called _lemon curd_ had been noticed: he would not have been able to recall what the others had dined with - the thought that the halfling had been so attentive made him uncomfortable, and suspicious.

“Are the local laws of hospitality so demanding that you renounced to your sleep for this?” Thorin asked, with his voice made even rougher by his uneasiness about the whole business - why had Master Baggins to be so _obstinate_ in doing something for him? It was thwarting.  

The halfling, who had resumed his task and was stirring the ingredients in a bowl, frowned.

“Don’t you try to please your guests in Erebor?” he inquired, his nose twitching as it often did when the halfling was focused on a topic.

 “If you had ever been a guest in Erebor,” Thorin snorted contemptuously, “by now you would have known that comparing the Shire hospitality with what I could offer you in Erebor is preposterous.”

Despite Thorin’s expectations and his conscious attempt at breaking the halfling’s composure, Master Baggins did not take his words too badly. He considered them for a moment, before speaking again:

“Let me understand what you are saying,” he murmured, tapping the spoon on the bowl’s rim. “Since I cannot offer you hot water running in pipes, beds lacquered with silver and gold, servants willing to answer to your commands, and cups of the purest crystal,” Master Baggins smiled, “I should not even try to make you comfortable during your stay?”

Thorin answered the halfling’s question with a troubled silence. He believed in the laws of hospitality, and he did not want to admit his disrespect for humbler households, nor did he intend to declare his adoration for Erebor as he had childishly done the evening before. Part of Thorin knew that gold and luxuries spoke of someone’s affluence rather than of his heart, still he could not yield to the halfling.

“I find your efforts _bizarre_ ,” Thorin stated at last. It was a compromise - this way he could keep sneering at the melekûn’s hospitality. “I wonder what sort of reasons you have for being so anxious about pleasing us,” he added, back to the bitter feeling of his conversation with Dwalin (the one Master Baggins might have listened to).

“As I told you last night, I highly appreciate domestic comforts, and peacefulness,” the melekûn replied. “At least one of us should try to be pleasant to conserve such a serene atmosphere.”

 _He listened to my talk with Dwalin_ , Thorin decided. This Master Baggins was less innocuous that he looked - he might be holding only a spoon in his hand, but his words were well-aimed arrows.

“You are only interested in being _liked_ ,” Thorin snarled, as aggressive as a cornered prey would be.

If the halfling was already acquainted with his opinion, there was no reason to pretend otherwise.

“I would not put it like that,” Master Baggins muttered, and Thorin could see that he was not so unruffled anymore. It seemed that _being liked_ was a sore point for the melekûn.

“How would you put it?” Thorin pressed on, with a sharp smile.

“I - I would say that I only seek friendship,” Master Baggins confessed, in a lower tone - as if he had just shared a secret with Thorin.

The prince broke into a laugh: he was highly amused by the fact that Master Baggins could hold to such an impractical, almost outrageous hope. But the melekûn looked stunned by his reaction, then simply hurt. When Master Baggins lowered his gaze, Thorin’s laugh died down and the dwarf felt annoyingly mortified about the whole conversation.

“ _Turgel, zundûsh bakandaizdaz. Zatamaradi mim huzûg_ ,” Dwalin growled, entering the kitchen.

Although startled by Dwalin’s interruption, Thorin felt grateful for it; it would spare him the bother of dealing with Master Baggins’ wounded sensibilities.

“ _Gurûdi melekûn zâyungi bakand bakndîth zurkur zundûsh_ ,” Thorin replied, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t think,” Master Baggins began, in a peculiarly high-pitched voice, “that talking in a language your host does not understand may be considered very polite.”

Both Thorin and Dwalin turned toward the halfling. Thorin noticed that the halfling’s cheeks were still red - from annoyance rather than from embarrassment this time. He had never spoken in such a harsh tone to them, and Thorin felt a bizarre thrill at Master Baggins’ frustration - it was evident that their previous conversation was taking its toll on the melekûn’s mood.

“Sometimes we grow tired of speaking a language that’s not our own. In fact it seems to me that forcing your guests to speak Westron is hardly polite, but I suppose you’ve never felt concerned about this.”

The halfling bit his lower lip, plainly taken by surprise by Thorin’s reproach. Then, straightening his back and holding Thorin’s gaze, Master Baggins declared:

“I would like to learn more of your language, Your Highness. In truth, I consider myself a quick learner when it comes to languages and my attempts at studying _Sindarin_ have been judged quite satisfactory by all those who have heard me speak it,” the halfling crowed, raising his soft beardless chin.

“And how many of them were _actual_ elves?” Dwalin asked, his laugh barely concealed in a snort.

Master Baggins blushed at the question, but Thorin did not share Dwalin’s amusement. The prince’s distaste for elves was renowned, and his inability to keep himself from despising them publicly was one of the reasons why he had been sent to the Shire. The thought that the halfling had devoted his time to learn their language was extremely displeasing to Thorin - it was as if Master Baggins had planned to further alienate himself from Thorin’s sympathy.

“It doesn’t matter,” Thorin said through his teeth. “Khuzdul is reserved for Khazâd and it is not taught to others, with few exceptions,” he admitted, but raised his hand in order to keep the halfling’s words at bay. “You would not be able to learn Khuzdul, anyway.”

“Why not?” Master Baggins asked, frowning.

“It is very simple,” the dwarf prince replied, smiling at the idea that the melekûn had been so easily lured by his bait. “Westron is a soft language; it runs in your mouth like water, so easy on lips and tongue that even a child or a toothless old creature can speak it. It’s full of double-meanings and ambiguity; such a language lends himself to any deception,” Thorin declared, with a shrug. “Not Khuzdul. Ours is a language of _truth_ ; it’s harsh and demanding: we’re not used to wasting our breath and words with Khuzdul. It is a language to command dwarves in battles, and take sacred oaths.”

“Were you two taking oaths in my kitchen, or planning a battle?” the halfling interrupted, looking at Thorin and Dwalin with an amused half-smile. “Anyway, you’ve only made me more curious about it,” he declared, turning his back on them to devote his attention to the lemon curd he was preparing.

“Have you even listened?” Thorin snorted. “It would be impossible for you to learn Khuzdul with your soft mouth.”

“Not that you have really tried it, Thorin,” Dwalin muttered under his breath.

The halfling did not hear him, but Thorin caught the words and their meaning quite well. He knew that Dwalin possessed a remarkably brazen sense of humour, but that his friend might have thought of such a comment on the melekûn left Thorin speechless and flustered. He stole a glance at the halfling, and he unfortunately caught him in the act of tasting the cooling cream; the damned thing was sucking the cream off his finger and Thorin nearly choked on his own breath. At least Dwalin had not noticed it, too focused as he was on reaching for the last cookie left in the jar; Thorin was thus spared another remark on the subject.  

He did not care if the halfling had wakened earlier just to prepare their breakfast, he did not care if the delicious scent of the cream was already reaching his nostrils, he did not even take anything from the table; Thorin marched out of the kitchen to his rooms intending to dress and leave the house for a couple of hours at least. He heard Master Baggins’ voice behind his back:

“Is he always so... _cheerful_ in the morning?”

Thorin did not linger to hear Dwalin’s answer.

 

*

 

Thorin saw little of their host in the following days. The dwarf prince and his followers were often busy with meetings with the hobbit representatives both in Hobbiton and Michel Delving. They also visited the richer mills and farms of the land, and even Thorin had to admit that hobbit agriculture seemed to thrive in a way unknown to dwarves - not that any proud Khuzd would be interested in it; Khazâd could buy all the products they need with their gold and their silver rather than grow things from earth. All the same, the efforts and the results of hobbit farming were quite impressive.

After the first days, Thorin had practically dismissed their guards. In the peaceful Shire Dwalin seemed protection enough, and the dwarves from Erebor were still a notable presence in the Shire even without a bunch of armed warriors following the prince everywhere.

Their lunches were mostly eaten at the Thain’s house or where their agenda of meetings brought them for the day, but Thorin discovered he was almost pleased to be back in Bag End for dinner. Although annoying, Master Baggins was a reliable host, and no meal in the Shire could compare to those offered in his house. It was not only due to the sheer amount and taste of the food Master Baggins served them, but also to the pleasantries of his reception and to the warm, comfortable atmosphere of Bag End. Without even perceiving the change, Thorin’s reserve had been weakened: he had slowly fallen into the habit of relaxing as soon as he set foot in Bag End after another exhausting tour of the Shire and its water mills.

Every time Thorin saw their host, Master Baggins seemed busy with gardening, cooking, tending to his house, or wandering in the neighbourhood. As he had guessed since the beginning, the melekûn had no other occupation, no higher purpose in his life; he had no family Thorin was aware of, nor close friends (though he seemed to know quite well most of the hobbits in the neighbourhood and spoke of them with Balin). The melekûn could not have been described as idle, yet all his occupations were domestic.

Master Baggins was still insufferably courteous, and ever attentive to his guests’ needs. Since that first dinner when he had so carelessly spoken of Erebor, Thorin had kept his silence at the melekûn’s table. He was polite when he needed to be, but no more than that; he had promised himself he would not be deceived by the small creature’s manners, nor charmed by his cares. For his part the melekûn left him in peace most of the time. He evidently preferred talking with Balin about the local culture, and experimenting with new cookie recipes on Dwalin’s appetite.

A fortnight passed in this fashion, and at last Balin granted Thorin some time far from diplomatic meetings. Truth was that the negotiations were going nowhere. Between the Shire and Erebor too great a distance lay, and the Kingdom under the Mountain could trade for what it needed with the Dale-people and the Wood-Elves of Greenwood rather than crossing half Middle-Earth to buy the melekûnh’s goods. Besides, despite the fact that the melekûnh _did_ trade with the dwarves from the Blue Mountains, it was only when those dwarves came down from their settlements in Ered Luin; halflings never travelled outside the Shire, and the local economy did not need Erebor’s wares more than the Mountain needed the halflings’. And, although the land was fertile and rich in plants and water, no lodes were hidden under its surface; there was no point in mining there, as the dwarves from Ered Luin had confirmed when their delegation had come to Hobbiton.

The meetings with the Blue Mountains dwarves had been far more interesting, and they had exchanged news of their respective homes. There were differences between the two groups of dwarves (in their beads and their decorations, in their pronunciation of Khuzdul and in their opinions on the West lands), still Thorin hardly noticed them after so many days among the melekûnh, and took great pleasure in those meetings.

At least those were fruitful: ancient alliances were renowned, promises of mutual help confirmed; it was decided than a couple of dwarves from Ered Luin would follow Thorin and his company back to Erebor when the time came to leave the Shire: the ambassadors from Ered Luin would visit the Kingdom under the Mountain, and bear gifts for King Thráin.

Instead, nothing was really settled with the melekûnh. The halflings were certainly fond of speaking, but their eloquence led to nothing; they professed their friendship in such vague terms that Thorin began to suspect that the melekûnh were not interested in them as anything but as an extravagant novelty. In other words, even those who took part at the meetings with the Thain and the Mayor were no more willing to be involved in the larger world outside the Shire than Master Baggins was. Actually their host’s questions were often nearer the mark than many others Thorin had had to answer to during the negotiations.

Even Balin admitted that their time in the Shire would probably resolve with no real understanding with the melekûnh; sooner rather than later, the dwarves would head for their home in the East, and they would take their new knowledge about hobbit customs with them - such a knowledge Thorin summed up in few words: _narrow-minded, nosy, weak creatures with a penchant for shallow formalities_. Therefore Balin had agreed that Thorin would not be needed for the umpteenth meeting with the Mayor of Michel Delving. Thorin had not even bothered to hide his satisfaction at the idea of being relieved of another pointless discussion on the value of the absurd items collected in what they called _museum_ \- items many a halfling living in Michel Delving loved to boast about, arguing thus the cultural superiority of that settlement over Hobbiton.

Thorin had already decided how to spend his day. He had never forgotten his promise to Fíli; Thorin meant to buy a gift for his nephew, even if he had to search the whole Shire to find something of value. The task was made more difficult by the fact that in the East the toymakers in Dale and Erebor were famous for their splendid works. Wind-up toys, musical boxes, puppets, and many more playthings owed their mechanical secrets to the Khazâd’s knowledge of machines, but it was in the taste of the Dale-people that the toys were painted and finished. Thorin had observed hobbit children at play from time to time: their toys were considerably simpler and plainer, in look as well as in use. Dolls and balls, carved figurines and blocks of painted wood - the hobbit toys seemed to amount to little more than this. On the other hand, there were many games the youngest halflings played in the field and in the gardens. As their parents, they liked singing and dancing, and they seemed content enough with catching frogs in the ponds, or playing _hide and seek_ \- the hobbit version of _finding the treasure_ \- with their peers.

Hence it was not with great hopes that Thorin made for the Hobbiton. It was market day, as Thorin had learnt from Master Baggins; it was bright and warm, and even Thorin had dressed in lighter clothes under his cape. He left Bag End alone, since Balin had already departed for Michel Delving and Dwalin held no interest in the market. Nor did Thorin worry about his safety; a dagger at his waist seemed protection enough. He met four of his guards in Hobbiton and exchanged some words with them, but they were heading for the _Green Dragon Inn_ and its well-appreciated beer.  

Yet Thorin soon regretted his solitude. At least, had he not been alone, his companions would have endured part of the halflings’ ill-concealed curiosity; as it was, Thorin was the sole object of the halflings’ glances and whispers. He saw them bringing their heads together, peeping, and even pointing at him. Their opinion did not bother him, but he was annoyed by their petty behaviour. None of them had ever tried to approach him in a frank, honest manner; they seemed to think him some strange beast from a far-away land - to be observed, or poked at. Not that Thorin desired to converse with them; still he would have preferred anything to this spying and muttering behind his back. He would have liked to say to them how strange they looked to him, with their pointed ears and hairy feet; how he had found their hairless faces almost repulsive at the beginning, how he still held their customs and values in contempt. _You are the Others, not me_ he would have liked to shout, but he did not and tried to keep his temper in check.

He tried to focus on the task at hand and examined the trinkets sold at one of the stalls. They were all made from wood and roughly carved, a superior mastery was shown in the garments offered at another stall. The melekûn seemed truly fond of weaving, and the fabric was of a very good quality. Yet the dwarf prince did not have any taste for the sort of patterns and embellishment the hobbits loved; Thorin could not think of any dwarf of his family clad in such ridiculous colours, let alone the fact that there was nothing there which might fit a dwarf’s bulk - or pride.

Stall after stall, Thorin’s hopes dimmed. And his mood hardly improved. The hobbit sellers seemed to have accepted his presence, and were courteous enough while recommending the quality of their products to him, but the coming and going of customers put Thorin at the centre of a constantly renewed attention. He had no desire to hide, but he began to hope to be less conspicuous. He could hear them murmur at his passage, and observe and judge his clothes as well as his bearing and pace.

At last Thorin found a stall selling toys, and as he had anticipated, the toys were very primitive. He tried to think what might sparkle Fíli’s imagination despite the poor craft, and he might not have paid attention to the female hobbit speaking nearby if it had not been for her high-pitched voice. Thorin caught very clearly their host’s name, and his attention suddenly shifted to the small group of hobbits gathered around the speaker.

“Isn’t he your cousin, Mrs Sackville-Baggins?” one of them asked.

“My husband’s cousin,” the female hobbit confirmed. “Would it were not so! He may be a Baggins in name, but he takes too much after his mother’s side. _She_ was a Took, you know that don’t you? And you know what they say about Tooks - fairy blood: that’s too kind a way to say that they are extravagant.”

“Well, well,” coughed a fat hobbit, “ the Tooks have always been _peculiar_ in their habits, but many of them greatly contributed to our community.”

“Not this one,” the Sackville-Baggins halfling insisted. “He has gone too far in his eccentricity. I cannot say everything I know - I’m not a busybody as others here in Hobbiton are, but I _do_ know things which would keep you awake at night if you knew them.”

“Oh, pray tell!” a younger female hobbit trilled.

By then Thorin had cautiously taken a glance at their host’s cousin. She was less plump than others, as if she had been left to dry in the sun; her hair was a dusty blonde and her tresses braided with bright coloured flowers; her features were soft, but she had a thin mouth and the most piercing voice Thorin had ever listened to. She bore no resemblance to Master Baggins, apart from the common traits to be found in any hobbit. When she caught Thorin peeping at her, Mrs Sackville-Baggins straightened his back and then turned slightly toward her nearest friend, the younger hobbit who had begged her for some gossip on Master Baggins.

“Let’s say, my dear, that no one else would have opened his house to strangers as my cousin did,” she said, and many a hobbit turned his head to look at Thorin.

The dwarf prince shuddered: at first he had thought that Mrs Sackville-Baggins believed him unable to hear or understand her; but now he was struck by the idea that the female hobbit _did_ want to be heard.

“We’ve always had dwarves passing through the Shire,” the fat hobbit pointed out, keeping his pragmatic view on the subject.

“ _Passing_ ,” Mrs Sackville-Baggins replied, “and not staying. Especially not in one of our holes. Don’t tell me, Master Burrows, that you would have gladly played host to even one of them, let alone three!”

Thorin felt his annoyance turning into rage at the contempt in the hobbit’s tone, but now he knew that they were also putting him to test. If he confronted the gossiping hobbits, he would become the talk of the day - more than he already was; besides, he wanted to know more about what the other hobbits thought of Master Baggins, and they seemed ready to dwell further on the subject.

“I wouldn’t, I certainly wouldn’t have been glad of that,” the fat hobbit grumbled.

“Exactly what I was saying. We love guests - every respectable hobbit does. But this is another thing, first it was that old mad fellow with his fireworks...”

“Oh, the most beautiful I’ve ever seen!” the younger female said, clapping her hands.

“Dangerous things!” Mrs Sackville-Baggins thundered. “They almost burned my garden to the ground with one of those, and I would go as far as to say that it was planned. Oh no, don’t look at me like that! Everybody knows that my husband’s cousin has always been envious of my peaches, which are doubtlessly the sweetest in the whole Shire. But I have no desire to quarrel with my husband’s relatives, and his cousin is clearly out of his depth when it comes to manners.”

“He’s quite...tough sometimes,” one of the others agreed.

“The last time I called at Bag End, bearing a gift of my best pickled artichokes, he practically threw me out. _Me!_ ” she said, hands fleeing to her chest and a heavy sigh on her mouth. “When I had no other thought than relieving his solitude, and bringing him news of my little Lotho. We are, after all, his closest relatives and you know how kind-hearted I am; I always say to my husband _Otho, although your cousin has always been so rude to us, we should remember that he’s family._ And so I went to him time after time, hoping that he would be glad to know that he’s in our thoughts despite all the wrongs we have suffered by his hand. But Master Baggins of Bag End prefers wanderers and dwarves to his own kin!”

“Indeed it’s strange to think of him all alone in that large smial with strangers as guests,”  another added.

Thorin snorted loudly at that, while he was pretending to examine a puppet. The hobbits around seemed to grow alarmed, but not Mrs Sackville Baggins, who carried on as before:

“Yet I was not surprised when I was told the news of the guests in Bag End; in fact I was expecting that something like this might happen: Bag End open to any sort of folks, and Master Baggins well-content by it,” the halfling agreed, nodding. “Who else would have welcomed them but my husband’s odd cousin?”

Thorin gritted his teeth, and only a gasp from the toy seller kept him from wrenching the head off the puppet he was still holding in his hands. He did not even know why he was enduring such offences at the mouth of a small, insignificant creature and her friends, but he could not stop listening to their mutterings about Master Baggins.

“He’s always been a little funny,” a male hobbit who had just joined the knot piped in.

“Even when he was a child,” the fat halfling agreed. “I remember that he hardly took part in any game with us other hobbitlings. He preferred to wander alone, searching for Elves.”

“He still does,” the younger female hobbit giggled. “My mother says that he takes long walks toward the Shire’s borders; sooner or later, my mother says, he will find himself on the other side of the Brandywine.”

 “And you know what he keeps in Bag End?” Mrs Sackville-Baggins asked to her listeners. She took a pause to improve the effect of her revelation. “ _Books_ ,” she said at last with satisfaction. “And many of them. Tell me, what hobbit in his right mind would want to possess books?”

Thorin almost laughed. It was true - there was many a book in Bag End, but the idea that it might be regarded as a grave infraction to the local customs was nonsensical. Yet the halflings seemed impressed by this piece of information.

“I say that living in Bag End alone for many years is taking its toll on Master Baggins,” one declared.

“Is it not strange that he should live there all by himself?” another wondered.

“Well said!” Mrs Sackville-Baggins exclaimed, “I find it utterly unnatural that he alone should inhabit Bag End: such a large smial should welcome a family, and a respectable one,” she said, with the air of knowing exactly what sort of family would suit Bag End.

“I wouldn’t be surprised should he disappear from the Shire in a puff of smoke,” someone mused. “He may have always been a little... _out of touch_ , but I think he’s becoming worse. The other day I was asking him about his dwarves, and he treated me in such an uncouth manner! As if I was prying into a secret rather than being a good neighbour to him. Master Baggins has grown strange taste, indeed.”

“And such a way of talking!” the fat hobbit complained. “I’m never able to understand if he’s being serious or not, and he says the strangest things; even when he’s polite I’m left with the impression that he has just insulted me but I really cannot put my finger on it.”

“At his age being unmarried is such an _original_ choice,” Mrs Sackville-Baggins added. “He evidently takes pleasure in playing the bachelor, and I guess that given his weird behaviour no reputable hobbit lady would like to marry him, not even for Bag End.”

“I heard the children calling him _Mad Baggins_ ,” the young miss confessed.

“Lotho told me that some of his friends do that” Mrs Sackville-Baggins replied. “I obviously forbade him to repeat such a nickname in public, nor would I ever call Master Baggins that. Still, since Lotho spoke, I really cannot help thinking of him as _Mad Baggins_.”

“ _Mad Baggins_ ,” the others repeated. “It suits him, and his queer ways.”

Thorin could not bear another word on the subject. He was nauseated by what he had heard about Master Baggins, and he told himself that his disgust came from knowing the sort of creature their host was. Thorin himself had suspected that the Thain had not done them a favour choosing the melekûn as their host, plus, he knew Master Baggins’ manners all too well - had he not found them offensive?

Thorin could not deny that he had judged their host in no kinder terms than his own kin was doing in the market square. The female halfling with the sharp voice was clearly embittered with her husband’s cousin, but other melekûnh had supported her views. Master Baggins was an oddity, shunned by his own folk; and the fiery Khazâd from Erebor had been accommodated in his house of all the houses in the Shire!

If the toy seller had nurtured hopes that the dwarf prince might pay for a toy or two after so much time spent handling and examining them, he was proven wrong when Thorin marched away without a second thought. Fíli’s gift was, at least for the moment, forgotten. Thorin vaguely heard some exclamation coming from the halflings he bumped into while he was making his way out of the market square, and he also guessed that they would largely comment on his behaviour. But he had already listened to what he had wanted to know since the first day in Bag End - he had learnt _who_ their host was and confirmed his doubts about his character and decorum. What a wonderful host they had been provided with! Thorin’s pride was wounded at the idea that the whole of Hobbiton had been talking about the dwarves in _Mad Baggins_ ’ house, and his cheeks grew hot at the mere thought of how they had been ridiculed in the eyes of the small folk.

Deep in such thoughts Thorin left Hobbiton, then wandered in the fields for hours mulling over what he had heard and how he might put a stop to their humiliation. His rage grew, his shame deepened; noon came and went, and Thorin did not even eat. He strayed from the paths, eager to avoid any meeting; it was only by chance that he did not lose his way through the fields and the meadows, for he paid no mind to what was around him and he might have walked away from Hobbiton for miles without even noticing it. But, in the late afternoon, he found himself on the main road and there he met Balin coming back from Michel Delving.

The old dwarf noticed Thorin’s bad mood and darkened countenance, but he asked no questions. He probably did not think too much of it, and the prince did not reveal his thoughts. By then he had examined Master Baggins’ responsibilities over and over, and his heart was swelling with disdain.

 

Later that evening, the dwarves were gathered for dinner in Bag End. Although Thorin had never been talkative after that first night at Master Baggins’ table, they all seemed very conscious of his silence. Balin and Dwalin behaved as if they were waiting for an imminent storm; they spoke little, and never to Thorin. Even Master Baggins seemed aware that there was something different in Thorin’s bearing, but he was not so foolish as to inquire about it - days of curt answers had taught him to leave Thorin to himself. In other words, they were all tiptoeing around the prince’s sullen mood. The delightful food on the table did little to improve it, and by the end of the dinner the mere sound of the melekûn’s voice and the sight of his curly head had worn Thorin’s patience thin.

Thorin snorted when Balin praised Master Baggins’ sponge cake - despite the fact that he had eaten three slices of it. Fury had been building up inside Thorin and he had been downright rude throughout the dinner: it would take just a little push to propel his rage, and Master Baggins inadvertently offered it.

“Did you enjoy the market in Hobbiton, Your Highness?” the melekûn asked. Thorin tensed and said nothing, taking a large gulp of cider instead. “If you had told me what you were looking for, I would have advised you on the best purchase.”

“I don’t need your advice,” Thorin answered harshly.

The melekûn’s eyes grew large at his words.

“I don’t intend to pry into your business,” he said, frowning. “I only think that being a stranger in the Shire you may need some tips, Your Highness.”

Before Thorin could reply, Dwalin slammed his hand on the table.

“Come on,” he grunted, apparently exasperated by the tension coiling between his prince and their host. “He was just looking for a gift for his nephew,” he explained in Thorin’s place. “And you should stop with calling him _Your Highness_ \- you may call him Thorin.”

“Have you done with shaming yourself before this halfling, Dwalin?” Thorin hissed, pushing the chair away and standing up in the kitchen with a murderous look on his face. “Haven’t we been humiliated enough by living under his roof? Should we share even our thoughts and names with him?”

“What the damn are you talking about?” Dwalin asked.

“Thorin,” Balin only said, as a warning.

But the prince was too far gone in his rage to listen to them. And Master Baggins was still there, pale but looking as if he intended to say a word or two on the subject. And he did though his voice was wavering.

“If my hospitality is such a burden to you, you may find sleeping under the stars and eating grass more pleasant than Bag End. And you can start this very night with your change of accommodation,” the halfling suggested, leaping to his feet and closing his small hands in fists.

“Master Baggins, please,” Balin intervened, “I’m sure this is a misunderstanding...”

“Do you want to know what I’ve been up to at the market?” Thorin growled, ignoring Balin and keeping his eyes on the halfling. He felt Dwalin trying to grab him by the elbow, but he wrenched himself free from the hold. “I’ve overheard some of your folk talking about you.” Master Baggins shuddered at that, but Thorin had already turned his eyes on Balin. He knew what he had to say on their host’s account, but he could not bring himself to repeat the words he had heard at the market while still looking upon the melekûn. Thus he spoke to Balin as if Master Baggins was not there. “Our presence here, our very mission, has been mocked by our living in this hole. It’s hardly a surprise that the negotiations are drawing to an end without any practical result, when our own host is laughed at by his own kin.”

“Thorin, don’t speak another word of this!” Balin barked, growingly alarmed.

“Oh, let him speak!” the melekûn squealed, trembling so hard that Thorin thought he would swoon at his next words. Still, he was unable to stop and held Balin’s gaze while he continued with his accusation.

“Even the other melekûnh cannot stand him. They call him _Mad Baggins_. We are living under the roof of the local fool, how can I bear it? How can _you_ , Balin?” A terrible silence had fallen on Bag End and only Thorin’s voice could be heard over it, rising to a thunderous pitch. “He’s a _freak_ ,” Thorin declared, feeling almost feverish with his own loathing. “No wonder that he lives alone in this hole. Have you not noticed how big this house is? Too large for a single melekûn. There _must_ be something wrong with him.”

Thorin had just finished speaking when the melekûn fled. He dashed out of his own house, his head low and his hand raised as if to keep anyone from stopping him. Not that anyone tried; Thorin did not even take notice of it until he heard the main door slamming shut. Only then did he frown and fall silent. His breath was heavy as if he had been involved in a fight - but there had been no fighting in truth, only his voice slicing and jabbing at their host.

“You go to him now,” Balin said, very calmly.

Thorin looked at Dwalin, but his friend raised both his hands and kept himself out of it. Balin’s scowl deepened and Thorin gave a snort. Yet he retrieved his cape from the coat rack in the hall, and went out into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul  
>  _Turgel, zundûsh bakandaizdaz. Zatamaradi mim huzûg_  
>  Beard of all beards, the birds woke me. I’ll kill the little monsters  
>  _Gurûdi melekûn zâyungi bakand bakndîth zurkur zundûsh_  
>  I fear that the hobbit loves to wake up early (lit. when the mornings are young) like the birds


	3. Bundushar

“Do not follow me!” Bilbo cried as soon as he noticed the dwarf trotting down Bagshot Row.

He saw Thorin coming to a halt at his words, then resuming his pace. _Blasted dwarf_ , the hobbit thought; he feared that Thorin might even be willing to add some new insults to those he had already offered in such a hateful fashion. But this time Bilbo would not tolerate the abuse, _oh no!_ He stopped at the bend of the road and faced the approaching dwarf with all the courage and pride he could muster. And he had reasons to be glad for the night breeze - it had dried his eyes of the tears which had threatened to fall.

“I am not following you,” were the dwarf prince’s first words when he reached Bilbo. “I’m just willing to put as much distance as possible between me and Balin for a while.”

Bilbo laughed despite himself. He did not know what he found so amusing in Thorin’s words - it might have been the look of sincere concern on the prince’s face and how he seemed anxious to avoid Balin’s reproach like a disobedient child. But it might have been the fact that Thorin was acting again like an arrogant clotpole.

Bilbo’s reaction seemed to baffle Thorin. Looking at the frowning dwarf, Bilbo shook his head and put his hands in his pockets.

“Do you want to walk with me?” he asked, holding Thorin’s gaze.

The shock melting Thorin’s composure for a brief moment would have been satisfying enough; yet the dwarf seemed to think it over, then nodded. Bilbo had not expected it, but it did not displease him: the night was warm and full of stars; a walk through the nearest meadows would refresh his spirit and put him in the right mood to smoke his pipe.

So the dwarf and the Master of Bag End went down the hill, which was still bright with the light coming from the round windows of the hobbit-holes of the neighbourhood. They did not speak while they were passing the little gardens and painted fences, the letter boxes and the rose bushes; the loudest sound was that of the prince’s boots and Bilbo reflected upon how boisterous a dwarf’s pace was. They were strange folk indeed, these Khazâd from the Lonely Mountain; loud and obnoxious, quick in temper and judgement. Bilbo was not sure that he could ever like them and surely he could not think of it at the moment.

The hobbit took a narrow path and soon felt tender grass under his feet rather than gravel. His toes curled in pleasure, and he smiled into the night. The earth and the grass were slightly humid and small insects hopped in every direction at their passage through the meadow. It was such a luminous night that Bilbo could see the outline of the beech trees which enclosed the meadow on three sides as well as the light tremble of their leaves in the breeze.

They were a few steps into the meadow when the dwarf broke the silence.

“Why do you live alone?” Thorin asked.

“Sweet Yavanna,” Bilbo chuckled, peering at the dwarf at his side. “Aren’t you _blunt_?” Thorin looked annoyed and slightly ashamed at the same time, and Bilbo’s lips parted in a vague smile. “You might be the most horrible person I have ever met,” he said, tilting his head.  

“You’ve no experience of the world,” the dwarf replied gruffly.

“Is it all you have to say in your defence?” Bilbo asked incredulously. Yet he found himself amused - again - by the fact that the dwarf had no better retort for his despicable behaviour. “In truth I’m glad you asked.”

Bilbo did not miss the relief spreading on Thorin’s features, but it took him some time to come up with an answer to the dwarf’s question. His motives for his solitude were clear in Bilbo’s mind and heart, but he realised that never before had he spoken about them in such plain terms. It was bitter to think that Thorin would not even understand how exceptional Bilbo’s next words would be.

“Both my parents died three years ago,” the hobbit said, blinking at the stars above their heads. “Bag End was theirs. I was born and raised there, though I suppose it might be thought too large even for three hobbits. But the Bagginses of Bag End are considered gentle-hobbits among our kin, and such a big house is a sign of wealth and distinction. I guess that my parents hoped to fill Bag End with children - but there was only me.”

Thorin said nothing, in truth he might not even be listening. But he did not interrupt, and Bilbo figured that he might as well go on with it.

“So when they died, I was the only one left behind. I don’t have not many close relatives, though there are many Bagginses in the Shire, and I have cousins and nephews here and there. But this might be said for every hobbit,” Bilbo admitted. “Anyway, I was left well-off with a large house and a generous income. I bet that it means nothing to you, being a prince, but here I’m what is considered a well-to-do hobbit. As I said, I am not lacking in relatives and in truth I feel I might even do without some of them, but the point is that I like to be by myself most of the time. Oh, I love dancing parties and summer balls; at the market I am glad to hear some news, and I like guests as much as the next hobbit does. Still, there’s no company I find as pleasant as my own, though sometimes I would gladly hit myself on the head. Does that make sense to you?”

The dwarf grunted, and it might have been a _yes_ or a _no, you fool_. Bilbo shrugged.

“I am not unsociable. But sometimes...sometimes I am not very sociable either. I think it’s my mother’s fault, or merit as I like to think of it: when I was a child she used to tell me the most beautiful stories about dragons and elves, and our games were full of those things: magic, flames, and songs,” Bilbo remembered, and a sweet longing seeped into his voice. “I played with the other hobbitlings, but I preferred her to any of them. Thus I have no very close friends, and Master Holman is the closest thing to a friend I can think of - but I suppose he looks upon me as a grandchild rather than anything else. Besides, my mother’s example made me grow fond of books and long walks in the forests. Most of the other hobbits distrust books as well as wanderers, and my interest for the world outside does not sit well with the conversation rules here in the Shire.” Bilbo took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the night dew on the grass. “I live alone by chance, and by choice - mine as well as of those who call me _Mad Baggins_. I knew already,” Bilbo assured, when Thorin cast him a furtive glance. “Although you’re the first to call me that to my face and not behind my back. Anyway, have I answered your question, your Highness?”

“Thorin,” the dwarf said.

“I’m sorry?” Bilbo stopped in the tall grass, and the dwarf was forced to do the same.

“It’s Thorin,” he snapped back, with the air of being on the verge of taking back the offer of his name. But Bilbo nodded, and a strange look appeared on Thorin’s face before they resumed their walk. “I was mostly raised by my grandmother when my mother died some years after my younger brother’s birth.”

He said nothing more, but Bilbo understood that it was the dwarf’s way of reciprocating his confession about his parents. It was a very small piece of information and in truth Bilbo found himself eager for more, but he guessed that Thorin would not appreciate any prying into his family history.

“You’re not married,” the dwarf said instead, in the same blunt fashion as his first question.

“Well spotted,” Bilbo commented, rolling his eyes. “I like being a bachelor. That’s another thing which is hardly appreciated in the Shire, especially when my spouse might enter such a large and wealthy house. I think that many a hobbit lady has never forgiven me my celibacy.”

Bilbo did not hint at his preference for males. His relationship with Thorin was strained enough as it was; since he had no idea about how dwarves felt about the subject, he preferred to keep his mouth shut. It might have been just his imagination, still he thought that Thorin was watching him quite strangely as if he had guessed something but did not dare to voice his conjecture.

“There was a female hobbit who had much to say about you,” the dwarf said after a while. “A Sackville-”

“Lobelia Sackville-Baggins!” Bilbo exclaimed, thumping his foot on the ground. “Then the words you threw at me were only the kindest among her slanders! Now that I think of it, I was wrong; you’re but the second most horrible person I know - _she_ ’s the first.”

Thorin seemed to be quite troubled at being compared to Lobelia, and his cheeks grew flushed under his beard.

“I would prefer orcs to her,” he muttered.

“At least their voices would not hurt my ears as much as hers does,” Bilbo replied, chuckling. He would have bet that Thorin had almost smiled at his words. “She wants Bag End. She hopes that one day the house will be hers, but I’ve already made up my mind to frustrate her wishes. I might even appoint you as my heir rather than giving her any satisfaction.”

“You’re not surprised then,” Thorin pointed out.

“No, I’m not surprised. Not about her, not about the others,” Bilbo admitted.

 _Still it hurts_ , he thought, but he could not say it.

“In Erebor,” the dwarf began in a sombre tone without looking at Bilbo, “should someone speak to me as I did in your house, I would challenge him to a fight.”

Bilbo frowned at the absurdity of the idea, but Thorin’s tone was perfectly serious. The hobbit thought that it was quite a strange - and slightly disappointing - way of admitting one’s fault. He sighed and took a long glance at Thorin’s taller and larger form walking at his side.

“Thank you very much, but no,” Bilbo replied, scrunching his nose. “I would prefer not to give you a chance to harm my body after my pride.”

The dwarf gaped and tensed, and Bilbo guessed that he had not really reflected on the fact that it would have been unrealistic for a hobbit to challenge him and restore his honour with brute strength. Thorin might not be much taller than him - taller than any hobbit, yet shorter than a man - but it was his far sturdier body-shape which looked so impressive compared to hobbit standards. Bilbo remembered how Thorin’s chest had looked that morning in his kitchen without any cover - large, hairy, and muscled. It had been embarrassing and bizarre at the same time to look upon such a display; it had been too different from Bilbo’s own idea of a body to decide whether it was a pleasant sight or not. Anyway, it was beside the point. The point being that, in a fight, Thorin would overcome him in a moment, trapping him beneath his weight and...

“I would not“ Thorin began, flustered, but he suddenly stopped and looked away.

It took Bilbo a couple of moments to understand that Thorin was referring to his words about the only possible outcome of a fight to restore his honour. Willing to put aside any reflection on Thorin’s strength, the hobbit asked in a lighter tone:

“Are there other ways to claim vengeance for one’s honour in Erebor?”

“Yes,” Thorin nodded, “and the most traditional is cutting the offender’s beard.”

“That might be hard as well,” Bilbo commented, taking a look at Thorin’s chin and cheeks. “Since yours is so well-trimmed.”

The hobbit immediately realised that he had said something wrong. A weight fell on Thorin’s shoulders, and the dwarf paled though his expression revealed nothing of the cause of the turmoil. Bilbo bit his tongue, and suddenly remembered that he had never seen a dwarf with such a short beard before. In his hobbit eyes, Thorin’s beard was just neater than the long, braided beards of the other dwarves, but it might be that among dwarves a short beard was a sign of disgrace - as Thorin’s words should have suggested to him.

 _Fool of a Baggins_ , Bilbo reproached himself. He should have listened more carefully and not spoken without thinking. He could feel that Thorin was now tenser than ever.

“I should not have...” Bilbo tried to say, but the dwarf muttered something in his harsh language before speaking in Westron.

“You couldn’t have known,” he declared curtly. “We Khazâd consider our beards sacred. The beads and braids in our beards, as well as those in our hair, stand for our status and our deeds. We take oaths on our beards and threaten our enemies with taking the beads in their beards; our honour feels appeased if we cut the beard of the one who insulted us. A Khuzd without a beard,” Thorin continued, touching his bearded chin, “is marked as one fallen low among his kin.”

“But yours is just...short,” Bilbo offered cautiously.

“Short enough to bear no beads,” Thorin replied with a bitter smile. “But it’s my choice, and no one else’s, to keep it so.”

The hobbit was slightly confused by Thorin’s words. He chewed at his lower lip, but the dwarf would not explain more than this.

“Why do you keep your beard short?” Bilbo asked at last.

“Aren’t you _blunt_?” Thorin answered genially. Bilbo huffed, wondering if the dwarf had not steered their conversation just to have a chance of throwing his words back at him. “But I’ll tell you. It’s a story that begins with a _dragon_.”

“A real dragon?” Bilbo asked, his eyes growing large at the mere thought.

Thorin seemed amused by his excitement, but even in the cold light of the stars Bilbo could not mistake the sadness moving in the depth of the dwarf’s eyes.

“What do you know about dragons?” Thorin inquired.

“Big. Wings. Fire-breath,” Bilbo said, feeling overwhelmingly stupid. It was as if he had been turned into a child eager for a bed-time story, but he already knew that this would not be a merry tale. “And I know they love gold over everything else,” he added, remembering bits of the old tales.

“They do,” the dwarf agreed. “And this is why Smaug came to Erebor. Oh, Erebor! The richest kingdom in Middle-Earth - its halls glitter with gold and silver, its ceiling are encrusted with gems, its walls have been carved decades after decades to tell the story of the Khazâd, since the day Durin woke and the Seven Fathers walked on Middle-Earth. And we’ll keep carving our story in its stone until the day Durin will wake again from his sleep under Gundabad. Erebor is a place and an idea; it’s the song inscribed in our hearts, and the home we choose,” Thorin murmured, and the love in his voice made Bilbo’s chest tight with a sweet ache. “But it was the treasure Smaug came for. I was younger then, and I had been raised as heir to the throne. My grandfather Thrór was King under the Mountain, and my father would succeed him before me. It had been my grandfather who had led his people to Erebor after his father had been slain in the war against the cold-dragons of the Grey Mountains.” Thorin stopped, as if he had been hit by a sudden thought. “I wonder why _he_ did not see what would come, when he had already faced dragons in the North. Anyway, that time was long gone before I was born, and under my grandfather’s watch the Kingdom under the Mountain thrived. There, from the dark depth beneath the Mountain, the Arkenstone came to my family.”

“The Arkenstone?” Bilbo repeated, because he had never heard of it before.

“It’s a jewel. The most splendid one, and its radiance would make kings and queens bow. The first time my eyes fell upon it, I could not think of anything else for days, as if the light caught in the gem had burnt my mind. My grandfather Thrór was enamoured of the Arkenstone, and he placed it upon his throne. Since the day the Arkenstone was found, a shadow fell upon his heart,” Thorin said, lowering his head.

“Was the Arkenstone cursed?” Bilbo asked, since it was the sort of things to be found in such tales.

“It might have been,” Thorin agreed, “since its beauty seemed to feed my grandfather’s greed for gold and gems. We Khazâd have always been proud of our riches, and there’s no other activity we value more than mining and forging - working metals and cutting gemstones is the core of our economy, and the value we use to measure a Kingdom. Erebor’s treasure was large and well-renowned even before the Arkenstone, but after the jewel fell in my grandfather’s possession he grew obsessed with the idea of accumulating even greater wealth. Nothing could satiate him, since he had fallen prey to the disease we call _dragon sickness_.”

Bilbo listened attentively to Thorin’s narrative. He could not fathom what the Arkenstone might have to do with Thorin’s short beard, but he soon found himself unable to focus on anything other than the dwarf’s deep, roughened voice - his words painted a world of shimmering caves and unnumbered treasures in the hobbit’s mind, and Bilbo could almost hear the sound of great black wings flying closer the Mountain.

“It grew worse and worse, especially after my grandmother’s death. None dared say the words then, but here I say them: my grandfather had gone _mad_ with greed,” Thorin declared.

Bilbo shuddered at the thought, and looked at the dwarf. He was under the impression that Thorin was confessing him things he had not often repeated to others; it was thrilling, but also frightening. Bilbo had guessed something of the prince’s behaviour and he knew that Thorin would probably regret his confidence later. He would become even more embittered against him.

“You don’t have to tell me this,” Bilbo muttered.

“No, I don’t,” Thorin admitted, sounding surprised at the interruption. Bilbo could not see his face because they had reached the shadows under the beech trees. “Do you want me to stop, and then make our way back to Bag End?” the dwarf asked.

They were alone under the stars and the beech leaves, and the air was growing colder. If Lobelia had seen Bilbo walking with a dwarf at such an hour of the night, she would have had something new to add to her endless list of rebukes. Yet Bilbo shook his head.

“Continue, please,” he said to Thorin.

The dwarf looked at him for a moment, then they resumed their walk. They did not enter the thicket, but rather skirted its border; fallen leaves crackled under Bilbo’s feet, while the knotty roots tickled his soles. Thorin’s voice grew lower in the shadows of the wood.

“The dragon, then. No tale could describe what it was to see him flying over Dale, that morning; it was fire, and death. The sky turned grey and black for it was filled with the smoke rising from the thousand fires kindled by his breath. A touch of his wings beheaded towers; his voice was a thunder and his whole body burnt red and gold like a star falling upon Middle-Earth from the dark depths of the sky. This was _Smaug Bundushar_ , one of the last fire-breathing wyrms from the North,” Thorin said, looking at the sky over them as if a dragon’s shape might suddenly hide the stars. “The treasure had lured him to Erebor. There’s a reason why we call _dragon sickness_ the greed which consumes the mind and corrupts the heart. How Smaug coveted Erebor’s treasure! He was like a moth ensnared by the flame, except that it was Smaug himself burning his way through Dale and our defences to reach the gold and the gems.” The dwarf hesitated for a moment before continuing. “We could not resist him. We hoped that the Elves from Greenwood might help us, but their king decided that he would not sacrifice his folk against such a threat. We closed doors and gates, but the beast reduced them to pieces. We fought, but he melted our axes and armours; charred bodies lay everywhere, the air was so foul with the smell of burnt flesh and the dragon’s own scaled body that I thought I would choke from it.”

Bilbo trembled at the images evoked by Thorin’s words, but he could not stop listening. He steadied himself closing his hand on the dwarf’s forearm - neither of them noticed.

“We fled,” Thorin confessed. “There was nothing else to do. My father, Balin, my sister, and I led those still alive out of the Mountain. Chaos broke, despair was upon us all; it was then that I realised that I had not seen my grandfather since Smaug had broken the gates. I went back, looking for him among the ruins and the corpses. I found him in the throne hall retrieving the Arkenstone from its place upon the throne. He ran toward the treasure hall clutching the jewel to his chest. I did not know what he thought to do and whether he realised that he was going to his death, since Smaug had already entered the treasure hall and was gloating upon my grandfather’s treasure.”

“What did you do?” Bilbo asked, almost breathlessly.

“I followed him,” Thorin replied. “He was my grandfather and my King. I could not have done differently, I _would_ not have done differently. He ran and I followed; I reached him before he could enter in the treasure hall - the stench of the dragon was almost unbearable there, and a great gash had been opened in the walls by Smaug’s passage. I tried to lead my grandfather away. The fallen lay all around us and no one could help me dragging him away for he was very old, but still strong - I even think that the madness which had seized him had given him an unusual, desperate strength. So he fought me, refusing to follow me out of the Mountain.” Thorin touched his beard again, almost unconsciously. “My grandfather made for the hall and Smaug burnt him alive. The flames licked at me and my beard was lost to them, only then did I retreat. What I didn’t know, and what I would learn only few days later, was that Smaug had been wounded while flying over Dale. A black, thick arrow sent by Girion, Lord of Dale, had reached its target; it had been mere chance, since the arrow had penetrated a small patch of bare flesh in the wyrm’s belly. I think that Smaug had not noticed it at first, or he had been too sure of his own strength, but later, when Khazâd and men had fled, and Smaug was in his new lair in Erebor, the arrow slipped deeper in. It bled him to death. A few days later the ravens carried the news to my father, and we returned to Erebor to find Smaug’s carcass lying upon the gold.” Thorin stopped speaking and his eyes fell upon Bilbo’s fingers on his forearm, but the dwarf said nothing of it. Instead he asked “What do you make of this dragon-story, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo swiftly took his hand away from the prince’s arm, and looked at the dark ground beneath his feet and the pools of silver starlight among the grass.

“I think that two fortunate events occurred that day,” the hobbit replied after some moments. “First, the arrow which pierced the dragon’s body and second, the flames which burnt your beard but not your face. You were very fortunate, or dwarf healers possess powers unknown even to Elves, for I noticed no scars on your cheeks, nor does your beard seem to grow less for all that it is short.”

Bilbo felt the dwarf’s eyes on him. He swallowed, wondering if he had gone too far.

“No one who heard my story has ever called me a liar before,” Thorin said, sounding annoyed but not furious - not yet.

“I haven’t called you _liar_ ,” Bilbo pointed out, feeling bold enough to look Thorin straight in the face. “You said it first.”

“It is very fortunate, Master Baggins, that you have no beard to speak of,” the dwarf sneered, looking at Bilbo with a new attentiveness. “And also that I don’t think you would represent an interesting opponent in a fight. But, above all, your eyes are keen.” The hobbit could not help blushing, despite the fact that he was almost sure Thorin had not intended that as a compliment. “You’re right. The story you’ve just heard is not completely true - it’s true for the most part and I changed but some details at the end. Moreover, it’s the story which is still being told in Erebor and few know what really happened that day.”

“It wasn’t Smaug’s fire, was it?” Bilbo interrupted him, with a shiver.

“No, not the fire, though Smaug was there, and I suppose he still didn’t know he was dying. When my grandfather refused to come with me, I tried to force him. I had never seen him like that - the madness had completely devoured the khuzdûn I had known all my life. I’ve told you that I was raised by my grandmother when my mother died, but my grandfather was the King under the Mountain: _he_ was the one I looked up to. One day I would be _him_ , I would rule as he had ruled, I would make Erebor greater and richer as he had done,” Thorin continued, while their walk steered again through the meadow. “But all he had been in my eyes, all he had been for our people, was shattered by the dragon sickness. He had grown cruel and selfish. My father, who was heir to the throne then, had done his best to contain the consequences of his father’s decline. But our kin had begun to murmur, and rumours of the King’s declining health had been spreading for years before Smaug came.”

“I am truly sorry that you had to witness it,” Bilbo murmured quietly.  

In his heart Bilbo grieved for the young dwarf who had seen his grandfather falling prey to his own greed, and losing his mind over gold and gems. Thorin did not thank him for his sympathy. He only gave a curt nod of acknowledgement before resuming his speech.

“So, when I tried to haul my grandfather away from the treasure hall, he accused me of treason. He said that I had been planning his downfall all along, he shouted that he would have me imprisoned in the deepest dungeons or banished from Erebor for the rest of my life. He called me oathbreaker, traitor, and other names I cannot translate from Khuzdul. He spat on me and cursed my blood,” Thorin recalled, half-closing his eyes. “I tried and tried again to drag him away. He hit me, his rings cut my face and my lips. I knew that Smaug was near and that he would have killed us both with one breath. I remember being afraid. Then, while we were still fighting, the Arkenstone slipped from his hands. He probably thought that I was trying to steal the jewel from him, and before I could do anything he had unsheathed his dagger and cut my beard. It was, he said, the beard of a traitor.” Thorin remained in silence for several moments and Bilbo guessed that he was collecting himself. “He dishonoured me - my own grandfather and my King. I know he was not in his right mind, _still_...” The dwarf shook his head. “Anyway, I was so shocked that I probably did not react as I should have done in other circumstances. My grandfather retrieved the Arkenstone and ran away from me, I could not stop him. He never came out of the treasure hall and we found his body later, beside Smaug’s. The Arkenstone had fallen among the gold.”

 _It wasn’t your fault_ , Bilbo would have liked to say. But he did not.

Strangely, the more Thorin told of his past, the more Bilbo felt in awe of the dwarf prince. It was as if Bilbo had never really thought of Thorin as the heir to the throne of Erebor - he had thought of him as a brute, a bad-mannered and spoiled dwarf. But this was the first time the hobbit realised that Thorin would be King under the Mountain one day. It was extremely bizarre that such a thought should occur to him when Thorin was recalling how he had been dishonoured by his grandfather. The prince had never been humbler in Bilbo’s eyes, yet Bilbo had never felt smaller and more ordinary in the dwarf’s presence.  

“You might have let your beard grow,” the hobbit said, without looking at Thorin.

“Yes, it would have grown very well,” Thorin admitted, caressing his cheek. “But I thought - I thought that it would do me good to remember how I had lost it.”

“You said Smaug came many years ago,” Bilbo murmured. “Do you need to atone for such a long time?”

“It’s not just atonement,” the dwarf replied. “It’s a warning: my lost beard shall remind me of my grandfather’s disgrace and of my own failure in protecting him and my people from the dragon. If it had not been for Girion’s arrow, we would have been exiled from Erebor, impoverished and embittered; Smaug would have been the end of the Kingdom under the Mountain. We had grown sick and blind along with the King, and I want to remember to fight off the dragon sickness with all my strength.”

“But you’re not sick!” Bilbo exclaimed. Then, more softly, he asked: “Are you?”

“No, Master Baggins, I’m not,” Thorin said. “But I may be one day. The dragon sickness runs in my family. And many agreed that I’m the one who reminds them most of my grandfather Thrór - they obviously mean it as compliment.”  

“So this is why you were so furious at me on my reputation’s account,” Bilbo understood, stunned by the sudden realisation.

Thorin’s own story was a long and complex explanation for his behaviour. Bilbo had not foreseen it when the dwarf had begun his tale, but now he saw that Thorin had been slowly leading him to a better understanding of his feelings. It was not an apology, and Thorin’s past should not have allowed him to treat others in such a contemptuous way, but now Bilbo knew why Thorin seemed so rigid and why he was so keen on the dwarf-lore. He was struggling to prove himself against the shadow of his grandfather’s sickness; what a bitter pride burnt in Thorin’s heart!  

“When the Thain suggested that I might play host for three dwarves, a part of me was hardly pleased at the prospect,” Bilbo recalled, “but another part - the part Lobelia would call my _Tookish streak_ \- could not help being curious about my future guests. I’d seen dwarves before and spoken to them, but your arrival promised to be full of surprises. So I accepted the Thain’s proposal, and he sent you to me.” Bilbo took a look at the dwarf before continuing. “You came to my house and called me a gardener, then a grocer.”

“It’s hardly my fault if...” Thorin began sternly.

“Please,” Bilbo interrupted him, huffing. “It’s not the fact that you mistook me for a gardener or a grocer, there’s nothing humiliating in being one or the other, but you seemed to think so, and by your tone I would say you were considering me less than the dirt under your boots.”

The dwarf’s body stiffened at the reproach and Thorin’s eyes met Bilbo’s gaze.

“You surely understand that in telling you the story of Smaug, I’ve meant to repay my debt to your wounded pride,” the prince said slowly.

“Metaphorically cutting your beard, then?” Bilbo asked, wrinkling his nose and looking up at Thorin. “Here in the Shire we simply _apologise_. And maybe send flowers or preserves.”

“I do not belong here,” Thorin replied, clearly annoyed. “And if you do not appreciate...”

“I do,” Bilbo intervened, instinctively squeezing Thorin’s arm. “It’s only that the way you’ve put it, it looks like we’re just... _even_.”

“Does it displease you, Master Baggins?” the dwarf inquired, frowning and observing Bilbo.

“I do not want to start afresh, as if these days had never been. I know little of you and you know little of me, but we’re hardly strangers anymore. I would prefer to still know that you’re a rude, awful dwarf with ghastly manners,” Bilbo explained, barely refraining from chuckling at the dismayed expression appearing on Thorin’s face at his words. “And that you’re better than that, sometimes.”

“I heard one of the melekûnh at the market say that you’re in the habit of insulting while being polite,” Thorin commented, a little dryly. “And now I am under the impression that you’ve wrapped your insult toward me in praise.”

“It might be the other way around,” Bilbo replied, “praise wrapped up in an insult.”

“You’re not a gardener Master Baggins, and not a grocer. Still I cannot understand what you are,” Thorin admitted, shaking his head. “It seems that you’re in the habit of defying my judgement.”

“That’s not a compliment, is it?” Bilbo asked, peering up at Thorin’s pensive expression.

“It would be if I were one to be pleased by surprises,” the dwarf answered. Then he abruptly added “You’re cold.”

Bilbo startled, since he had not really thought about it until Thorin had spoken. They had been walking for a while, and it was considerably less warm than when they had left Bag End. It was not really cold, but the night chill had seeped beneath Bilbo’s clothes – in truth he had left his smial in such a hurry, upset as he had been, that he was still in his shirt and trousers. Without even thinking the hobbit had started to rub his hands up and down his arms to fight off the cold, and now Thorin had noticed it.

The dwarf took off his cape and draped him over Bilbo’s shoulders. The gesture was swift and firm, and Bilbo understood that any protest would be in vain. He wondered if Thorin usually did the same for his nephew - _Fíli_ , Dwalin had called him - taking care that the dwarfling did not get too cold. Balin had said that Erebor’s winters were long and snowy, and Bilbo had been very impressed by the notion, since in the Shire snow seldom fell. Was Thorin’s nephew allowed to play in the snow? In truth Bilbo did not know how old the dwarfling was, or what sort of present Thorin wished to bring back from the Shire.

Yet he did not ask. Thorin, after his generous offer of the cape, said no more and they walked in silence toward Bag End. But it was not, Bilbo thought, an uncomfortable silence. The hobbit enclosed himself in the cape, his nose brushing against the cloth. It had absorbed the smell of the many fires Thorin had been sitting by on the road, and the musky scent of the rain which had soaked it many times during the journey. It was not altogether pleasant, but it suggested to Bilbo dreams of forests and rivers he had never seen, dreams of strange plants and stranger folks, dreams of the long road to East, the road Thorin and his companions would return to in a few weeks’ time.    

When they reached Bag End’s door, Bilbo turned to Thorin.

“Thank you for taking a walk with me,” he said, giving him back his cape well-folded. The dwarf took it and nodded, and he might have been on the point of saying something, but Dwalin opened the door.

“Welcome back,” he commented, seeing them on the threshold. “I was just planning to go searching for you two; I was not worried about you, Master Baggins, but I mistrust Thorin’s sense of direction.”

Thorin grunted at the teasing and walked past Dwalin. Bilbo frowned at the sound of Thorin’s boots on his floor. It was time for the dwarves to learn something about pulling off their boots rather than leaving a mud trail on his floors and carpets - he should really have had a word or two with them on the subject.

 _Another time_ , Bilbo said to himself, spying Thorin and Dwalin exchanging sharp remarks but carefully avoiding speaking of the time the prince and the hobbit had spent outside.

 

*

 

Although neither Balin nor Dwalin asked Bilbo what had been said between him and Thorin, it was clear that the shift in their relationship was highly amusing in the eyes of the two brothers. It would not have been evident to anyone else who had not witnessed the first weeks of the dwarves’ stay in Master Baggins’ house, but Balin and Dwalin had experienced the tension setting in every time their host and Thorin shared the same room. The tension was still there in truth, yet it was subtler and it seldom resolved itself in bitter remarks.

Bilbo thought that the tone of their bickering had changed, and he found himself enjoying it. Thorin was as thick-headed as ever, but Bilbo could say that the dwarf was making an effort to be more civil. For example, although Thorin had kept his habit of waking very early in the morning and taking a walk in the sleepy neighbourhood, he made sure to bid their host good morning before leaving with Balin for their daily appointments.

Besides, Bilbo and Thorin often walked together after dinner. The hobbit supposed that it would have been polite to invite Balin or Dwalin to join them, but something held him back.

Nothing exceptional ever occurred during those walks with the prince, and their first conversation remained unparalleled - Bilbo did not speak again of his parents and Thorin let his grandfather’s memory rest. It was Bilbo who did most of the talking; it seemed that Thorin could be quite eloquent from time to time, but he was usually very quiet. It was not unusual for them to walk in silence, side by side, hardly exchanging a word or two before returning to Bag End for their night’s sleep.

Yet the following morning, Bilbo would remember those walks with pleasure.

He did not know why Thorin made such a congenial companion for a walk - after all he lacked the qualities Bilbo would have consciously sought in a friend. The dwarf was prone to brooding and did not possess the light-hearted spirit of many hobbits; his moods were very volatile and often incomprehensible to Bilbo. Never garrulous, seldom funny, Thorin hardly matched the hobbit ideal of companionship.

Still Bilbo was growing fond of their evening walks through the meadows.

Thus weeks passed, the season became warmer and the dwarves began to plan their return to Erebor. Bilbo was very secretive in those days, often keeping himself to his own room and giving no explanation for his unusual behaviour. For three evenings in a row he had gone straight to his bedroom after dinner, rather than slipping out of his front door followed by the dwarf prince.

Thorin had not asked for an explanation - actually, he had not even given sign of having noticed the loss. Bilbo felt vaguely annoyed about it, but he supposed that Thorin had other things on his mind, all connected with his home in the East. Therefore it was with some surprise that one afternoon Bilbo heard someone knocking at his room’s door.

“Master Baggins?” Thorin’s voice echoed on the other side of the door.

The hobbit quickly cleared his desk of papers and ink-bottles, then leapt to his feet and went to the door. He found himself face to face with Thorin - a frowning Thorin.

“Oh, I thought you were all out,” Bilbo said. “Do you need something?”

The question seemed to displease the dwarf, and he shook his head. But at the same time he casually put his hand on the doorjamb, as if he wanted to make sure that Bilbo would not close the door in his face.

“Balin and Dwalin are still out,” Thorin explained. “Has anything happened, Master Baggins?” he asked then, narrowing his eyes on Bilbo.

“To Balin and Dwalin? Not that I know of,” the hobbit replied swiftly.

“I wasn’t talking about them,” Thorin muttered, “but you seem distressed lately.”

“Things I have to take care of,” Bilbo explained, lightly pinching his nose with his fingers.

“Ink” the dwarf commented, tilting his head. Bilbo’s eyes flew open in confusion, and Thorin elaborated “You have ink on your nose, your fingers must be dirty.”

Bilbo took his handkerchief out of his waistcoat and cleaned his nose. It often happened to him when he was too lost in writing, but it was especially embarrassing with Thorin as a witness and he felt his cheeks grow red.

“Thank you” the hobbit said, shifting his weight from foot to foot and peering up at the dwarf. “Do you want me to prepare you something to eat?”

“No, I can take care of myself,” Thorin interrupted Bilbo roughly.

An awkward silence fell between them. The dwarf seemed willing to say more, but he could not bring himself to speak. Then they heard Balin and Dwalin’s approach - they were probably climbing up to the top of the hill and their loud voices entered Bag End through the open windows. The sound seemed to alarm Thorin, and Bilbo suddenly guessed that Thorin had been waiting for a moment to speak to him alone.

“Take a walk with me this evening, Master Baggins” Thorin said quickly, as if the words had been pulled out of his mouth.

 _You should have invited me_ Bilbo thought, instead Thorin had given him an order.

It was strange since after Bilbo’s invitation that first night, they had never agreed to walking together in so many words: they usually just took to leaving the house after dinner and that was all. But now Thorin had been forced to voice his wish, and it _did_ please Bilbo.

It was a pity that he had to refuse.

“I’m truly sorry,” the hobbit replied, lowering his gaze, “but this evening I cannot.”

“We leave the day after tomorrow,” Thorin reminded him stiffly.

Oh, Bilbo knew. They had been talking about it at his table for days - how they would make their way back to Erebor, the route they would prefer, how they would welcome the sight of the Mountain capped with the first snow. Thorin had not looked displeased then, but now Bilbo’s refusal seemed to offend the dwarf’s pride. He made to step away from Bilbo’s door, but the hobbit stopped him with a hand on Thorin’s wrist.

“I was hoping that you would spare some time for a walk tomorrow afternoon,” Bilbo said.

Thorin frowned in surprise, but nodded. Bilbo’s hold on the dwarf’s wrist grew loose, and after a moment the prince was greeting Balin and Dwalin on their return to Bag End. Bilbo discreetly closed his door; with his back plastered to the door, the hobbit felt his lips twitching in a smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**
> 
> _Bundushar_ : fire-breather


	4. Wouldn’t an Adventure Be Lovely?

Bilbo settled himself between two great roots of the beech tree, with his back against the trunk and grass beneath his feet. The late afternoon sun shone through the foliage, staining the shadows under the tree with soft green light. Thorin sat down beside him, hardly concealing his curiosity. He had immediately spotted the small bundle Bilbo had carried with him from Bag End, but he had not asked about its content. The bundle was in Bilbo’s lap now and the hobbit distractedly patted it while speaking.

“Tomorrow you’ll be on the road,” Bilbo said, looking at the wavering leaves far above his head, “and I know you haven’t found a gift for your nephew.”

“Have you been spying on me, Master Baggins?” Thorin asked, sounding amused rather than annoyed.

“Oh, it did not come to spying. The expression you wore after your visits to the market and the grunts you gave when Balin asked you about your nephew’s present were enough. I would have offered you my advice on the subject, but I remember you were quite averse to it.”

“You should not be allowed to bring up that unfortunate conversation every time you wish to scold me, I’ll end up thinking that you have no other reason to reproach me,” Thorin pointed out, gently nudging the hobbit’s elbow with his own.

“That’s completely untrue,” Bilbo protested, turning his head to look at the dwarf. “For example, I asked you dwarves to take off your boots inside the house, but yesterday when you knocked at my door, you were still wearing them. And I found mud on the floor of the kitchen!”

“You fussy thing,” Thorin murmured, rolling his eyes. “Carpets and floors are there to be walked upon. And most of the folks in Middle-Earth _do_ wear shoes.”

“ _My_ carpets are for embellishment, and _my_ floors are there to be clean and shining,” the hobbit replied. “I wonder what sort of feet you grow into those heavy boots of yours; they must be pale and covered in moss like old wrinkled trolls coming out only at night.”

“Is your imagination always so impertinent and unpleasant when it works on me?” the dwarf asked, and Bilbo’s cheeks darkened - however Thorin did not seem to notice. “My feet are paler than my face and my hands, this much I admit, but there was no moss last time I checked. Anyhow, I fail to see how could I compete with the hair _you_ grow on your feet.”

“I do not _grow_ it like carrots in a garden,” Bilbo mumbled, shifting his heels in the grass.

Thorin’s words had made him suddenly self-conscious of his hairy feet. For the first time Bilbo wondered if they looked nice - to dwarves, that was it - since among hobbits it was completely normal, while he had already learnt from Thorin that dwarf feet were usually hairless. Therefore Bilbo supposed that his feet appeared strange to non-hobbit folks, exactly as dwarves’ beards were an oddity to his hobbit eyes. It took some time to accept such a different look, and certainly the ideas on beauty had to be very different from one race to another. The thought brought Bilbo back to the prince sitting with him under the beech tree - actually, he had to admit that Thorin was not ugly, once one got over the beard.

“Anyway, I’d been thinking about your nephew’s present,” Bilbo said quickly, realising that he had been staring at Thorin. “I have the perfect idea for it.” Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Well, at least a good one,” the hobbit amended.

“It would explain why you were so interested in my sister-son,” the dwarf commented.

“I wasn’t prying,” Bilbo replied, taken aback by the idea that he might have seemed as nosy as Lobelia. “And you didn’t say that you were uncomfortable talking of him or your sister.”

“I wasn’t,” Thorin reassured the hobbit. “I wouldn’t have answered your questions otherwise. Still, I admit that your interest in my family made me wonder.”

Thorin’s tone was still teasing, but Bilbo felt his stomach tightening. It was really stupid on his part - he should not have been worried that Thorin might have read too much in his questions, since the dwarf would not have even thought about such a possibility; still the hobbit felt the need to explain his behaviour:

“I was being friendly, not that you know anything about that. Plus, I was reasonably worried about the sort of present your nephew might receive.”

“I am perfectly capable of choosing a present for him, yet I can hardly be pleased with the sort of items traded in this land of yours,” Thorin objected. “Melekûnh might be eager to spend copper and silver on worthless knick-knacks, but a Khuzd is not so easily deceived by poor-quality merchandise.”

“Must you always disparage the Shire and its inhabitants?” Bilbo asked, feeling his cheeks grow hot. The dwarf’s contemptuous words had upset him, and he closed his fingers on the small bundle in his lap. “All our conversations end up with you belittling our customs, one way or another, and pointing out how narrow-minded and primitive we hobbits are compared to you dwarves.”

“You were mocking me first,” Thorin pointed out, sounding surprised at Bilbo’s reaction. But his surprise soon turned into annoyance, Thorin’s next words were drenched in it. “By now you should know that I don’t mean to scorn you, but this place and its folks.”

“I _do_ live here, if you haven’t noticed,” Bilbo answered through his teeth. “And I happen to like living here,” he added, as if he intended to challenge the dwarf on the subject.

Thorin’s expression darkened and then closed up, becoming unintelligible; Bilbo could sense the tension coiling between them, almost dimming the glow of the sun among the leaves. To the hobbit’s surprise, it was Thorin who spoke first, breaking the unnerving silence.

“Master Baggins, I don’t wish to leave here knowing that you’re angry at me,” Thorin said.

His voice was low and rough at the edges, but not unkind. When Bilbo lifted his eyes to meet Thorin’s, he saw that the dwarf was looking at him with earnestness.

“It’s Bilbo,” the hobbit replied, feeling his irritation drown in the warmth of the afternoon.

“Bilbo,” Thorin repeated in his deep tone. His gaze slipped down - for a moment Bilbo thought that the prince was looking at his mouth, but Thorin’s eyes did not stop there and fell further down. “Would you let me take a look at the bundle?”

“Yes, obviously,” Bilbo nodded, startled. “It’s for you. I mean, for your nephew. If you want,” the hobbit murmured, starting to unwrap the package.

It revealed a small leather-bound book: it was not too thick, its cover was blue, and it smelled of dried ink and fresh paper. Bilbo could not help taking a sidelong glance at Thorin, to savour the surprise in his eyes.

“You’ve bought him a book,” the dwarf commented.

He did not sound disappointed, but neither did he seem quite convinced of the idea.

“It’s a book,” Bilbo agreed. “But you’ve got the rest all wrong. I did not buy it; I mean, I bought a journal with blank pages from a dwarf seller some time ago and I thought it would fit the purpose. Then I wrote it.”

“You wrote it,” Thorin said.

“Are you just going to repeat my words, or ask me what I wrote in it?” Bilbo asked, teasing the dwarf with a complacent smile. Thorin huffed at that, but his thick fingers brushed the book’s cover.

“Tell me, Master Baggins, what did you write in this book?” the dwarf inquired, and the corner of his lips twitched in an ill-concealed smile “I fear that it might be a list of my flaws, to make sure that I won’t forget them even when you won’t be there to remind me of them every day.”

“What a silly notion!” Bilbo protested, wrinkling up his nose. “That would be useful, but hardly a proper present for your young nephew. You said that Fíli has already learnt how to read and write Westron, didn’t you? And that he’s fond of stories, especially those with heroes and great battles, frightening creatures and great treasures.”

“Yes, he loves tales of warriors and wonders,” Thorin agreed. “Is that the sort of thing you wrote? But you know little to nothing of the legends of Khazâd.”

“Thank you for pointing that out,” the hobbit snapped, shooting a dirty glance at the dwarf - who at least caught the hint and looked sheepish. “I would have liked to hear your tales, and maybe write some of them down, but you always seem so guarded when it comes to dwarf-lore. I did not dare.”

“You should have asked,” Thorin replied quietly.

He looked at Bilbo in such a way that the hobbit had to clear his throat before speaking.   

“Anyway, this is not dwarf-lore, it’s...my imagination. It’s not a legend and not an historical fact; it’s just a short tale I invented, putting in it all the things I thought Fíli might like, and a couple of songs,” Bilbo explained while his finger nervously tiptoed on the leather cover.

“So this is the reason you have grown so mysteriously busy of late,” Thorin understood at last. “You were working on this.”

“Oh, I planned this as soon as you told me that Fíli was so passionate about tales, but I feared that it would remain unfinished and I wouldn’t be able to give it to you before your departure.”

“So you worked in the evening rather than taking your walk,” the dwarf added.

He seemed relieved at the revelation, as if it had just taken away some weight from him. Bilbo wondered if, when their evening walks had stopped, Thorin had feared he had offended him somehow. The idea that the prince might have been worried with such thoughts was sweet to Bilbo, and he smiled softly.

“I hope it will be worth the missed walks,” he murmured, eventually handing the book to Thorin. “It doesn’t bite,” the hobbit said, when he saw how carefully the dwarf was holding it.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that: _you_ wrote it, after all,” Thorin commented, frowning.

“I should be affronted by your opinion of me,” Bilbo chuckled. “A biting hobbit, indeed!”

“It would be a pity should you feel insulted by my opinion of you,” the dwarf retorted vaguely.

Bilbo held his breath for a moment. He was under this peculiar impression - as if he and Thorin were having two very distinct talks, and one of them was not exactly proper. It made Bilbo unusually nervous; he was very glad of sitting among the beech’s roots, since his knees felt like porridge every time the prince’s voice dropped another note and his words seemed to carry another meaning under the most obvious one.

While Bilbo was so troubled, Thorin turned the pages of the book. The hobbit spied the prince’s face, looking for some signs of appreciation or disapproval. He saw nothing, and Thorin’s silence while he was examining the book became a little unsettling.

“It’s not a masterpiece,” Bilbo babbled, “and I suppose it’s not really good. But if you don’t like it...well, it’s all right, we can still find something for Fíli in Bag End and you won’t have to go back to him empty-handed.”

“Read it to me,” Thorin answered curtly, pushing the book in Bilbo’s lap.

The hobbit gaped, since it was not what he had planned. He _did_ love reading aloud, but he seldom did it for he lacked an audience. Thorin’s request was unexpected and Bilbo had to cough a couple of times before being able to raise his voice to a reasonable pitch.

“Are you sure? I mean, maybe _you_ should read with that voice of yours...” Bilbo suggested shyly.

“What about my voice?” Thorin asked, surprised. Bilbo could feel his cheeks grow red; the sight seemed to bring something to Thorin’s mind since his voice was beautifully low when he spoke: “We should talk about my voice later, but for now I would like to hear _you_ reading, since the story is yours.”

“You’re doing it on purpose,” the hobbit groaned, guessing that Thorin had lowered his voice just to tease him. The grin on the dwarf’s mouth confirmed his suspicion.

“Come on Master Baggins, read for me,” Thorin said, making himself comfortable with his back against the tree’s trunk.

 

The first time Bilbo had heard about the prince’s nephew had been after Thorin’s disastrous trip to the market in Hobbiton. Thorin’s aggressiveness at dinner and his later confession under the stars had been so unsettling, though in a different way, that Bilbo had not thought about the dwarfling’s present until many days later.

At first, when Dwalin had spoken about it, the hobbit had just offered his advice on the matter as he would have done on any other subject regarding the dwarves’ stay in the Shire. But Thorin’s reaction had been so bad that he had practically forgotten the whole idea, even after their night walk had done wonders for their relationship.

Then, a week or more later, Thorin had said something about his sister Dís - a passing remark about the fact that sometimes Bilbo said the sort of things the prince’s sister would say. Bilbo had been hooked: he had no siblings, and he had felt an instinctive curiosity toward Thorin’s sister. Thus the hobbit had tactfully inquired about the princess, and - as soon as he had discovered his existence - about the younger prince Frerin. Wary at first, Thorin had warmed up to the subject after a while. He had talked about his siblings and their characters, about his sister’s husband Heptifili and their son Fíli, and even about the dwarfling who would be born before Thorin’s return to Erebor.

Although talking about one’s family could hardly be considered a rare occurrence in the Shire, and in fact represented one of the chief topics for most conversations, Bilbo had been amazed by Thorin’s tales about his family. The tragic account of Smaug’s attack had already taught Bilbo how important family was to Thorin - but in that case regrets and shame cast a shadow over the dwarf’s feeling for his grandfather. On the contrary, Thorin’s affection for his siblings was not burdened by such a legacy, neither was it stiffened in formalities and respect as his relationship with his father the King under the Mountain seemed to be. No, Thorin’s tone when he spoke of his sister and brother was bright; he looked cheerful in a light-hearted way which made Bilbo smile just from hearing about Frerin’s pranks or Dís’s temper.

It may be supposed that Bilbo’s feelings about Thorin’s siblings were part longing and part envy for a larger family he did not have, but there was also another emotion coiling in the hobbit’s heart, and it was connected with Thorin’s evident love for his siblings.

The point was that Bilbo had never seen the dwarf show such affection for another being. Thorin was clearly fond of Dwalin and Balin and trusted them; for all his haughtiness, the prince treated them as friends rather than subjects. Still Erebor had been the only subject able to animate Thorin. Although the Lonely Mountain was a fascinating topic in Bilbo’s eyes, the hobbit had wondered if Thorin’s love for his Kingdom of rock and gold might be so deep as to ban any other affection from his heart. Thorin’s behaviour had surely given Bilbo many reasons to think the dwarf prince cold-hearted.

Yet in the evenings spent walking and talking, and even in Thorin’s quiet silence, Bilbo had found proof of the dwarf’s heart. Thorin was not quick in his affections, and generally reserved about them, but he was not as callous as Bilbo had suspected him to be at the beginning. Thorin’s softer side being coupled with such a tough shell of diffidence and arrogance, the contrast was particularly compelling.

This marked another shift in Bilbo’s feelings about the dwarf prince.

The improvement in their relationship had been largely due to Bilbo’s willingness to concede a second chance to anyone, and to the hobbit’s interest in such a different culture from his own. But, by the time Bilbo was reading his tale to Thorin under the beech tree, it was not about Bilbo’s kindness or Thorin’s identity as a dwarf anymore. To Bilbo, it had become about Thorin himself as individual.

Much in the same way, even for Bilbo’s usually generous nature, creating a gift for Thorin’s nephew was beyond his duties and pleasures as host. It was far more personal than anything else, since it involved both the prince’s own blood and Bilbo’s creativity. Besides, while food played an important role in hobbit culture as a way to show respect or affection, writing was part of Bilbo’s exceptionality in the Shire. It had nothing to do with his hobbit-lore, and all to do with his character and inclinations.

Later, when Bilbo would reflect about that afternoon, he would wonder if Thorin had had any inkling about the importance of that moment under the beech trees. And he would guess that the prince could not have been entirely aware of the extent of the average hobbit’s suspicion for books, neither could he have imagined that Bilbo had never read something of his work to another after his mother’s death.

Reading stories aloud or even improvising them had been one of Bilbo’s favourite pastimes with his mother. He had learnt how to read and write in that way. Even now the memories of his mother often included a book and her brilliantly expressive voice, that she had been able to turn into a villain’s cavernous tone or a sophisticated elven timbre.

So it came that the hobbit had never felt so insecure in Thorin’s company, not even at the beginning when the dwarf had been rudely critical of everything he did and said. After all only Bilbo’s pride had been threatened by Thorin’s remarks then, while this time he was putting far more at stake. Without any warning Thorin’s opinion had become important to Bilbo, and his voice almost faded over the first line of the story.  

“You’ll have to read louder,” Thorin pointed out. “Or I’ll doze off before you even begin.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Bilbo exclaimed, without knowing whether he was more annoyed or frightened by the teasing. Oh, would the tale be so boring it would lull Thorin to sleep? The thought was mortifying.

“It’s quiet here, and warm. I might succumb to such comforts and fall asleep,” Thorin replied, though he did not look any closer to sleeping than when they had set out from Bag End. “In that case, you’ll be excused for pinching me awake.”

Bilbo frowned at the absurd proposal, but Thorin’s lopsided smile was quite difficult to resist. Moreover, there was some warmth in the dwarf’s tone, as if his banter had not been intended to sharpen Bilbo’s anxiety over the tale but to soothe it. The hobbit chewed at his lower lip, then nodded and began his reading again.

Thorin never interrupted him. It was better that way, since otherwise Bilbo would have been forced to look at the dwarf’s face and accept whatever look of tedium or disappointment would be on it. When Thorin chuckled at the first funny passage in the tale Bilbo almost lost the trail of his own words, but he kept on with the reading and Thorin’s mirth rang in his ears again and again throughout the story. During other passages Thorin only hummed noncommittally, but never properly commented. His thigh rested against Bilbo’s and the hobbit could feel the warmth coming from the dwarf’s body; sometimes he also sensed Thorin’s gaze upon him, but he struggled to keep himself focused on the page.

While he was reading, Bilbo grew more confident about his tale - it _was_ good and entertaining. The meadow stretching out in the afternoon light beyond the beech trees faded and the forest and mountains in the story became truer, filled with colours and sounds. Only Thorin’s presence remained real, perched at the margin of Bilbo’s imagination.

When the tale ended, returning to reality was almost a shock to Bilbo. The hobbit stared at the page for a while before realising that his neck had grown stiff from glancing down at the book. He slowly closed it and he felt deeply melancholic. He had written the tale in an almost frenzied state, devoting all his spare time to it when the dwarves were not around. Creating the plot, writing down the first draft, re-writing scenes, being constantly distracted from thoughts on the next scene he would write - it was not surprising that Thorin might have been alarmed by his fidgety behaviour.

Now the tale was written and, regardless of Thorin’s opinion, it had acquired a life of its own. Bilbo felt as if he had just lost something, as if the tale was less _his_ than before. _It has grown up_ he thought with sad amusement. 

Still Thorin said nothing about it, and Bilbo almost feared that he really had fallen asleep. At last he felt the dwarf’s elbow gently pressed against his own, and Thorin’s deep voice over his shoulder.

“So, this is your... _imagination_ ,” Thorin commented.

“I wrote it all by myself!” Bilbo protested, indignant.

“I wasn’t implying otherwise, yet I’m impressed by the number of things going on in your head.”

Bilbo was baffled by such a comment - he could not be sure that it should be taken as a compliment. It seemed slightly ominous, as if all those things in his head might make him delusional. It sounded exactly like the sort of accusation Lobelia Sackville-Baggins would use speaking of _Mad Baggins_ \- _Mad Baggins who lives in his tales rather than with his feet on the ground_. Still Bilbo thought himself a very practical hobbit, and his down-to-earth wisdom was not threatened by his escapism in tales and legends - at least he hoped so.

“Is it a bad thing?” he asked Thorin, eventually turning his head to face the dwarf.

Thorin was not looking at him, but he did as soon as he felt the hobbit’s eyes on him.

“Your head or your story?” he inquired, raising his brow. “I cannot say about your head, you’re the only one who knows how much happiness or unhappiness you get from this imagination of yours. But your tale, Master Baggins, will please and excite my nephew,” Thorin declared. Then, before Bilbo’s stunned look, he elaborated: “It’s really good.”

“Oh,” Bilbo gasped, realising what Thorin was saying. “Did you like it then?” he could not help asking.

“Are you fishing for compliments, you vain thing?” the dwarf asked gruffly, but his eyes were alight with quiet mirth. “I did. And you read it very skilfully. I was not even tempted to fall asleep.”

“I would have hit you on the head with the book,” Bilbo grumbled.

“And I thought that all hobbits were peaceful creatures!” Thorin complained, rolling his eyes. “But it’s good,” he repeated, brushing one of the book’s corners with his thumb. “I’ll read it to Fíli myself. Although you were very convincing, I dare think that my voice would do justice to your main character.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Bilbo conceded, blinking rapidly and sensing where the conversation was going.

“Speaking of it,” Thorin said, observing the hobbit with the utmost seriousness, “I was wondering if I might happen to know _him_ , the unnamed dwarf with blue eyes.”

“It’s just a character,” Bilbo answered meekly, knowing that his cheeks were glowing red. “You should not try to trace the sources of my imagination. I did my best to describe the dwarves in the tale and all the dangers and enemies they face, though I have never been on an adventure with any dwarf. I guessed that the tale would not have been as entertaining with hobbit characters.”

“I’d have agreed with you some time ago, but now I think that you might be able to invent some tale of an adventurous hobbit, and it would be quite interesting to read.”

“Oh, there’s no such thing as an adventurous hobbit,” Bilbo replied, unexpectedly annoyed.

He had unconsciously fallen back in the common habit of Shire-folks of regarding adventures as improper and usually nasty experiences. For a moment Bilbo was really upset by the idea that Thorin, tactless as usual, might have suggested that a decent hobbit would willingly take part in an adventure. Then he realised that words as _decent_ or _proper_ were the sort of titles Lobelia Sackville-Baggins would use against other hobbits to decide what was acceptable behaviour and what was not.

“Once you said that in Spring you’re happy with reading and smoking just outside your door,” Thorin murmured, glancing at the meadow. “But what of the rest of the year?”

Bilbo tilted his head. He looked at the dwarf, and studied his strong profile in the golden-green light. It was a mystery to Bilbo how Thorin could manage to look regal even in simple clothes and sitting under the trees with no other company than a simple hobbit’s. It had to be the big, long nose, giving the dwarf’s face a predatory air, and the long black hair streaked with grey like that of the legendary kings of the North. Thorin might not be the sort of prince Bilbo had imagined as a child hearing his mother’s stories, but he was a prince nonetheless. It was disappointing and thrilling at the same time.

“Sometimes I think I’d like to know what’s out there. I’d like to see if the stories I read and heard are true, and speak with the Elves living in the woods. I’d taste beer in Bree, and cross rivers larger than the Brandywine. I’d like to see if the stars look different than they do in the Shire, and if you can almost touch them standing on the peak of the mountain called Redhorn in the East.”

“ _Barazinbar_ ,” Thorin said, “that’s our name for it. It’s nearer to your Shire than Erebor is.”

“I suspected it,” Bilbo admitted, though he was stricken by the idea of such a distance between Bag End and Thorin’s beloved home. “I saw it in one of my maps, but it’s an old, imprecise drawing I bought years ago and I wasn’t sure that it was right about your Erebor. You see, all I know of the world is from stories and maps; you’re right in thinking me almost a simpleton in that regard.”

“You’re many things Master Baggins, but _simpleton_ does not suit you,” Thorin replied with a snort. “Yet, it’s true that you’re largely ignorant concerning the lands beyond the Shire, though you’re less so than any of your neighbours. In truth, I find it quite remarkable how you manage to be so curious about the world when melekûnh seem so determined to shun it.”

Bilbo chuckled nervously at that.

“I guess that they would burn this book rather than reading it,” he commented.

“I guess they would not sit with me speaking of adventures,” the dwarf agreed, and he looked altogether too pleased with the idea of being involved in something so shocking for Shire customs.

“Oh, it will take them a lot of time to accept the fact that I hosted dwarves in Bag End,” Bilbo answered with a vague smile.

“Why don’t you leave then?” Thorin asked abruptly. “You could go on a journey for a while, as you’ve been dreaming.”

Bilbo looked at the dwarf, surprised by the vehemence of his tone. Although Thorin usually expressed all his opinions with arrogance, this straightforwardness left Bilbo wondering about his motives. It almost seemed to suggest that - _no, it can’t be_. The hobbit reproached himself for the inopportune thought; Thorin’s words did not conceal any invitation to join him and the other dwarves on the road to Erebor.

“I’m curious about what’s beyond the Shire, but that doesn’t mean that I would go on a journey,” Bilbo answered, frowning as if to suggest that he had never considered the sheer possibility - though that would have been a lie. “Wondering about the world and growing restless is reasonable enough, but going on a journey? I may be ignorant, but at least I know that roads can be very dangerous. I couldn’t manage, really -  I’d soon find myself in troubles, and what of Bag End? Surely I cannot leave without someone taking care of my house: Lobelia would sneak inside as soon as possible, and steal all my silverware. And what of clothes? I have no clothes for a journey and I could not waste my best waistcoats on the road, neither could I leave without taking some thread and needle with me: I cannot stand loose buttons, and that’s without speaking of mud and...”

“Not another word, Master Baggins,” Thorin interrupted him.

A dark frown had appeared on his face and Bilbo guessed that he had been disappointed by his panicked babbling about journeys. He felt slightly ashamed, but he could not help it - he was not the sort of creature to go on an adventure; he could only dream and write about it as long as he did not really face the unexpected, and it was a pity that Thorin could have thought otherwise.  

“I am sorry,” the hobbit said with sincerity.

“Why do you apologise for such a thing?” Thorin asked, then probably realised that he had spoken too harshly and his tone softened. “You don’t need to justify your inclinations, Master Baggins.”

“It’s Bilbo,” the hobbit corrected him, slightly annoyed at the formality of the address.

“Is it really _that_ , Bilbo?” the prince asked, lingering on the syllables of his name - or at least it seemed so to Bilbo’s reddened ears. “Is it buttons and silverware, is that why you haven’t ever left the Shire and seen for yourself the things you only know from books and maps?”

“I’m not unhappy with my life here, you know. I love the Shire, and I’ve never known any home other than Bag End - I truly cannot think of a better place to live in and grow old.”

“You think that those who are on a journey have no desire to return to their homes. Sometimes it’s like that, and sometimes there’s no home waiting for them - but that is fleeing rather than journeying. There’s nothing wrong with missing your home while you’re on the road. In truth, the point of a journey is not just going, but _coming back_.”

“I fear,” Bilbo began, biting his lower lip, “I fear that I might not come back; if I go on an adventure I might lose my way. What would become of me if I cannot come back or I don’t want to?”

“No one can say what might happen to you on the road,” Thorin agreed, “and even when you come back, you’ll be changed.”

“Are you?” the hobbit inquired.

“Am I _what_?” Thorin asked, looking confused.

“Changed. You’re on a journey aren’t you? And you’re going back home,” Bilbo reminded him.

“I suppose I am,” the dwarf admitted with some reluctance.

“You see, I know who I am as long as I stay here,” Bilbo said. “I know my needs and my habits. I know the weather and the things that grow in my garden. I know the faces I meet outside my door and the prices at the market. But if I left the Shire I’d be someone entirely different from the hobbit I’ve been for years, I fear I should be disappointed with myself, and very tragically misplaced.”

“I miss Erebor and the customs of my kin,” Thorin replied quietly. “I won’t blame you for fearing the unknown when I long for what I’ve known all my life.”

“Thank you.” Bilbo guessed that the dwarf was on the verge of reproaching him for his bad habit of thanking and apologising at every turn, but Thorin just scowled. “In the end, my tale will get to travel while I’ll be staying at Bag End,” the hobbit added, somewhat cheerfully.

“You didn’t need to write it,” Thorin suddenly declared, almost irritated.

“You’re very welcome, Your Highness,” Bilbo answered dryly.

“I didn’t mean that...” the dwarf growled, then covered his eyes with one of his big hands. “Mahal, you are the most exasperating creature I’ve ever met. And that’s counting trolls. What I mean is that my nephew will fall in love with your tale, my sister will be appeased and I won’t suffer her rebuke.”

“You’re very welcome, Thorin,” Bilbo said with a large smile.

Thorin’s frown seemed to fade a little at the hobbit’s warmer tone.

“Good,” he nodded, “good.” For a moment the dwarf looked as if he did not know what to say; instead he took a long glance at Bilbo, until the hobbit felt the impulse to squirm under such scrutiny. “You wrote _striking_.”

“Did I?” Bilbo asked, feigning as much ignorance as he could - but he _did_ know what Thorin was talking about.

“I’m sure it was something along the lines of _the dwarf’s striking blue eyes_ ,” the prince quoted, with the air of having memorised each word with great care. “I also remembered something about his _noble bearing_.”

He even grinned, the scoundrel! Bilbo would have gladly hidden behind a tree. He had not really thought of using Thorin as the main character for his tale, but he had been impossible to do otherwise. After all it was not as if he knew many dwarves, so choosing Thorin as a source of inspiration had been quite natural.

“I guessed that your nephew must be quite impressed with you, and that he would be excited to identify the hero with his uncle. But it’s not _really_ you,” Bilbo declared, growing flustered at the amused look on Thorin’s face. “Otherwise I would have added something about the hero’s rudeness. Don’t you know it’s impolite to invade a hobbit’s personal space?” Bilbo snapped, quite frustrated by the way Thorin was practically looming over him.

Even when they were sitting elbow to elbow the prince’s larger bulk made him feel small and slightly overwhelmed. He had tried to explain it to Thorin a couple of times, noticing that dwarves were not really sensitive when it came to personal space - any more than they were about nudity.

Still Thorin - out of forgetfulness, stubbornness, or sheer idiocy - kept wandering through Bag End in his trousers, boots, and nothing else if he felt like it, and marching straight into Bilbo’s personal space. He did it when he was upset and he did it when he was satisfied; he leant toward the hobbit while they were speaking, and often nudged him or touched his shoulder.

Bilbo knew that he had done the same when they had been talking about Thorin’s grandfather a while ago, but that had been an exception. Hobbits were not unaffectionate creatures; it usually took them more time to grow physically intimate with someone who was not a relative, a childhood friend, or a well-known neighbour.

Thorin’s attitude to proximity was not downright unpleasant - but it was certainly bizarre considering how circumspect the dwarf prince was in other regards. Yet Bilbo did not know what might come from it, and he instinctively fought against the temptation of lingering on the casual brush of hands or on the friendly nudges.  

“I see that you’re more annoyed with me than usual,” Thorin commented, backing away slowly and keeping his gaze on the hobbit. “Have I not praised your tale enough?”

“You think me vain,” Bilbo protested, feeling that he might even leap to his feet and take a walk rather than discussing this with Thorin.

“You _are_ vain,” the dwarf replied, and his tone seemed to ascertain a fact rather than make an accusation. “What is it? Have I upset you with talking about adventures? I did not intend to suggest that you should leave the Shire or Bag End, or that I will think less of you if you don’t. I was just...curious. Your tale made me wonder if you might want to go on a journey, but it was a passing fancy,” Thorin said, shrugging. “I wouldn’t have spoken had I known how you’d be so disturbed by the idea. Now, please, look at me. You hadn’t done it properly since I asked you about travelling beyond the Shire’s boundaries.”

Bilbo shuddered at that. He had not known it until Thorin had spoken, but it was true.

The dwarf’s questions had confused him. Thorin had not planted any new seed in Bilbo’s mind, but he had turned over the fertile ground of the hobbit’s imagination. At first he had done it by just staying at Bilbo’s house; with such guests at Bag End, Bilbo had been compelled to devote many thoughts to the things of the great world, and Thorin’s constant remarks about Erebor and dwarvish customs had only nurtured the hobbit’s interest for other cultures. Moreover, although it was the first time they had properly talked about journeys and adventures beyond the Shire-lands, many of their friendlier talks had foretold this one.

Bilbo eventually raised his face and looked at the dwarf.

“I’ve had little sleep since I was finishing the tale and I feel quite tired and touchy,” he murmured, shifting his heels in the grass. “When you’re gone I’ll have to scrub Bag End from floor to ceiling. And think about replenishing my pantry. Oh, my poor smial!” Bilbo sighed, taking a deep breath. “Still, Bag End will be less noisy without guests. Not that I’d choose a dwarf for a guest at any time, but all the same...I’ll be checking for stains on my carpets for weeks after your departure.”

_Sweet Yavanna_ , Bilbo thought, _what a convoluted way to say that I’ll miss them!_

He had often been amused by the fact that Thorin never apologised except in some oblique way of his, and now he found himself doing much the same in order to express his moodiness. Bilbo had not realised how lonely he had become after his parents’ death, but he did now. With his guests’ arrival Bag End had become noisy and troublingly untidy, yet the dwarves had kept him company - Thorin especially.

Now that the dwarves were leaving, the thought of going back to a long chain of lonely evenings was distressing to the Master of Bag End. He knew that there was still Master Holman and some of his neighbours and relatives were not that bad; there would be parties all Summer, and many things to take care of in and out his smial. Bilbo’s life was not hollow and never had been, but now that he had made some space for his guests, their departure would leave a gap in his routine.

Bilbo would go back to the trite, familiar topics shared among all hobbits; he would have to wait for Gandalf’s visits to have proper news of the world and some tales of the tall folks. And who could say when the wizard would be in the Shire! He had always come and gone at his pleasure, and his arrival was usually as unexpected as his desertion was; it had been the same when Bilbo’s parents were alive and it had not changed, though Bilbo knew that his mother had made Gandalf promise to look after her son from time to time.

Bag End would soon feel empty. It would remind him of the first days after his mother’s death - of the stillness seeping under every door, of the rooms made larger by her absence, of the words withering on his tongue because there was no one to hear them. The afternoon sun did not warm Bilbo’s feet anymore, and the silence in his head was louder than the sounds in the wood.

At least until Thorin’s rough fingertips were pressed against his jaw. Bilbo shuddered, but he raised his head - he had been staring at his hands in his lap, he knew. The prince looked at him critically, as if he was taking in the emotions written on Bilbo’s features. Oh why had Bilbo never learnt to be impassive? Even such a thick-headed dwarf could see how lonely he would be after their departure, but he did not want their pity - especially not Thorin’s.

“Should I ever suppose to have understood melekûnh,” Thorin said quietly, “the mere thought that you can be so lonely among your own people would be enough to convince me that I don’t, I really don’t understand them.”

Bilbo’s breath caught at those words. They had been delivered with simplicity, yet he could say that they were not simple at all and they were the gentlest Thorin had ever offered him. Thorin’s fingers were no longer touching the side of his head, as if the dwarf had kept in mind his complaints about all the unnecessary touching, but Bilbo still felt their impression on his skin and he did not turn his head away.

The dwarf _did_ have striking blue eyes.

It was a wonder that Bilbo had never really thought about them before. He knew their colour enough to think of it while he was describing his dwarf hero in the tale, but this implied that he had spent some time considering it and that his mind had lingered on the detail. Bilbo did not remember such a moment. Thus it was with some surprise that he found himself admiring the dense blue of Thorin’s eyes, darker around the pupil.

Hobbits are generally quite expressive. Not only are they naturally eloquent and voice their feelings, especially when they feel them disregarded, with great abundance and variety of words, but they also have a penchant for making faces and gesticulating. They distrust impassivity and they are quite put off by it.

Thus it had taken Bilbo quite a while to understand the subtler variations in Thorin’s expression. At the beginning he had thought that the only recognisable emotion on such a stony face could be distaste, and still he found Thorin’s face a little too blank. Now on the other hand, Bilbo discovered that the dwarf’s eyes were extraordinarily communicative; his strong, rigid features and his beard almost limited the range of Thorin’s expressivity, so it was all to be found in Thorin’s eyes.

_We’re going to kiss_ , Bilbo thought with sudden clarity.

He was looking up at Thorin, with his head turned toward the dwarf sitting at his side. His neck slightly ached at the stretch, but Bilbo could ignore it for the moment. They were not touching, with the exception of their shoulders pressed together. Contrary to what Bilbo would have expected from such a moment, he was not insensible to the things around him - he still felt the grass tickling his ankles and heard the rustling leaves over their heads; his nose caught the scent of the soap he had been using to wash the dwarves clothes, but also the smell of damp earth in the shade of the trees. Yet among all those details and textures of the world around them, Bilbo found Thorin. He was like a rock placed in the middle of a stream, and the waves of lights and sounds broke over his large, blunt presence.    

Bilbo looked at Thorin’s lips. They were thin, and the beard was thick and dark over the upper lip; such lips did not look soft or liable to break into a smile - yet Bilbo had seen the dwarf prince smile, and he was not that bad at it. Thorin’s beard was still strange and vaguely intimidating, and left Bilbo with a foreboding of unpleasantness. He did not fancy having his skin and mouth scratched, and his glimpses of Thorin’s chest had already acquainted him with the amount of hair which could be found on a dwarf’s body.

Thus Bilbo could hardly think of Thorin as beautiful or even handsome. Those words he had used to speak and think of hobbits, and Thorin did not look like a hobbit at all. _Striking_ seemed closer to the mark, and sometimes Bilbo allowed himself to think of Thorin as _attractive_ \- still his mind preferred not to dwell on what he found appealing in Thorin’s look. He liked his company and his voice, but they were hardly reason to kiss him. Yet Bilbo wanted to.

It was not a burning need, not an unrelenting force pushing Bilbo into Thorin’s arms. Neither was it an itch he needed to scratch. It was just a nice, gentle desire to kiss Thorin - the sort of idle but sweet thought that he could choose to ignore without consequences. In this regard it was not very different from the cheerful urge to kiss a dance partner after a particularly vivacious jig or from the kisses stolen in a back garden after midnight. But Thorin did not look like one to dance, nor to hide behind a rosebush. This was unsettling, since Bilbo did not know what sort of reaction he would obtain if he gave in to the temptation.

He saw - or he _believed_ to see, as he would say to himself later - that Thorin wanted to kiss him. His blue eyes were bright with that desire, and he looked at Bilbo’s mouth with no subtlety to speak of. Bilbo felt the impulse to close his eyes and lean into Thorin to blindly seek his lips; it would have taken him just a tilt of his head to fasten his mouth to Thorin’s and feel for himself how it was to kiss one with such a beard and a big nose.

Bilbo’s eyelids fluttered closed.


	5. Armukhakkar

“Dragon! Dragon!” the voice came in the middle of the night.

Thorin bolted out of his sleep with a sharp intake of breath, as if he had just emerged from deep waters. Shattered dreams did not leave any trace on the prince’s mind; his heart leapt in his chest and his body tingled with dread before his mind could focus on what was happening. He found himself sitting upright in his bed, clutching at sheets and furs with so much force that he might have torn them apart.

Then something fell heavily on the bed and another voice followed the first.

“Fíli, I told you not to run nor yell.”

Thorin released the breath he did not know he was holding and the tension left him in such a rush that he almost felt hollowed of any energy. He slumped back onto the bed, groaning softly and sensing the promise of a headache in the way his temples throbbed. This was hardly the sort of awakening he preferred. Not even his affection for his _irakdashat_ \- his sister-son - could soothe his displeasure at being scared out of his dreams.

“For Mahal’s sake,” Thorin growled. The lamp Dís was carrying dispelled some of the shadows, so that Thorin could glare at Fíli. The young khuzdûn was sprawled onto the bed in his nightclothes, looking at his uncle with a mixture of awe and expectancy. “Did you send him here shouting of danger?” Thorin asked Dís, peering suspiciously at her.

“Oh please,” Dís replied, rolling her eyes. She placed her lamp on the nightstand. “I would not put it above Frerin, but you know very well I wouldn’t use my son for such an errand.”

Thorin snorted, but did not contradict his sister. Dís could be more annoying than Frerin if she put her mind to it, yet she would have known better than using the threat of a dragon for a prank. On the other hand dragons were but tale-characters to Fíli, and Thorin could only wish that his nephew would never experience first-hand the fear a dragon inspires.      

“Will you read something for me, Uncle?” Fíli requested, glancing briefly at his mother for approval. “ _Please_?”

The prince shifted his body so that he was sitting with his back against the headboard and carded his fingers through his tangled hair, scowling at the dwarfling. Fíli looked back at his uncle - he had Dís’s eyes, pale and bright like the snow-capped mountain peaks in the starlight. And, like his mother, the young dwarf was particularly well-versed at looking unimpressed by Thorin’s grimace.

“I was sleeping,” Thorin stated, feeling that it would be improper to give in so easily.  

“We were too,” Dís intervened, shrugging. “Kíli woke us. By the time I had fed him, Fíli wanted to come here for a story; Kíli is sleeping now, and Hepti is watching over him.”

“Mahal bless your husband’s patience,” Thorin commented, patting the fur beside him.

Fíli smiled at the sight and quickly crawled to occupy the empty space at his uncle’s side, and Dís sat close to her son. Although Thorin had not agreed to read any story yet, it was plain enough that he would not cast them out of his rooms; thus Fíli and Dís made themselves comfortable on the bed and the princess wrapped her son in the fur to keep him warm. Looking at the pair Thorin felt his annoyance fade. He sighed for he was aware of his own weakness, and guessed that Dís had never had any doubt that he would have yielded to Fíli’s request.

Thorin took a sip of water from the pitcher on the nightstand, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. His mouth was still bitter, but he was definitely awake now and his mind raced to decide what sort of story Fíli would want to hear.

“Read me Master Baggins’ tale,” Fíli demanded, before his uncle could think of anything else.

“ _Again_?” Thorin groaned.

At the corner of his eye he saw Dís smiling the sort of smile which promised teasing and questions.

“It’s a favourite of his,” she commented, while playing with Fíli’s braids.

Fíli had his mother’s eyes, but his hair was definitely Hepti’s - no one in the royal family had such golden hair, and even the newborn dwarfling sported the darker colours of Durin’s line. This might have accounted for Dís’s fascination with her first-born’s hair and her habit of braiding it, even if Fíli was old enough to have learnt some of the simpler braiding styles. He was, in fact, better at braiding his hair than Frerin had been at his age.

But braiding another’s hair was a sign of affection among Khazâd and Dís could hardly be blamed for her fussing. Thorin remembered his grandmother doing the same with him when he had been a dwarfling; he remembered his own pride at having his hair braided by the same nimble fingers which plaited the King’s hair.   

“I’d say he’s not the only one with a soft spot for Master Baggins’ tale,” Dís murmured, interrupting Thorin’s trail of thoughts and smiling broadly when her brother’s frown deepened. “For example, _I_ find your halfling’s tale quite delightful.”

“Hobbit,” Thorin corrected her instinctively, though it was probably the _your_ which had been aimed to annoy him.

“A very gifted melekûn,” Dís agreed, loosening another braid to redo it in a better shape. “And Fíli loves the tale’s hero, don’t you _mimul_?” she asked, pulling gently at the locks and leaning over her son.  

Fíli huffed at being thus pampered, making both his mother and uncle smile at the sight of the Thorin-like frown on his face. Then, looking at Thorin with the utmost seriousness to win his support, Fíli said:    

“The khuzdûn in Master Baggins’ tale is a great warrior, isn’t he, irak’adad? He fights for his kin, and he’s stronger and more courageous than anyone else.”

The enthusiasm in Fíli’s tone could not be missed. Thorin knew quite well that his nephew would not accept any other story in place of Master Baggins’. Since the first time Fíli had opened the small book that had been Thorin’s gift from the far away Shire, the dwarfling had elected the tale as one of his favourite stories, second only to the story of the creation of the Khazâd at the hand of Aulë Mahal and to the deeds of Durin the Deathless.

Thorin had not been surprised nor displeased by Fíli’s preference, yet the dwarfling’s love for the tale meant that it had been read countless time over the months since Thorin’s return. Although Fíli was perfectly able to read Westron by himself, he seldom renounced asking Thorin to read for him - it was a custom uncle and nephew had developed since Fíli’s birth, when Thorin’s voice had often lulled the small khuzdûn to sleep, to the great pleasure of his over-tired parents.  

“Go take the book then,” Thorin said.

Fíli did not need to be told twice, and leapt down the bed with all the energy of youth - in other words, bumping into a chair, knocking over an empty bowl, and almost slipping on the stone floor in his haste to comply with his uncle’s request. Fíli had left the book in Thorin’s rooms the last time he had persuaded his uncle to read the tale for him; therefore he knew where to look for it. He retrieved the book from the writing desk and thrust it into Thorin’s hands.

Only when the dwarfling was on the bed with his mother, did Thorin open the book and begin to read.

So many times had Thorin read the tale that he had memorised some of its lines. He remembered quite well Fíli’s favourite parts - the most thrilling and epic ones - and he always devoted special attention to them, so as to make sure that his nephew would enjoy the scenes like the first time. Thorin’s voice was not as expressive as the melekûn’s and he was not so good at mimicking the different characters in the tale, yet the time he had spent reading for Fíli had taught him how to please his exuberant but demanding public.   

Even his sister Dís, who seldom spared anyone her criticism, had found nothing to complain about with the way Thorin read to her child. This probably had much to do with the fact that the first years of Fíli’s life had been trying for Dís and her husband Heptifili. Maybe they had both been too young to marry, but Dís had been adamant and even their father the King had not been able to persuade her to wait.

Heptifili had been serving their father as a councillor for a few years when, during the celebration for Durin’s Day, Dís had announced that she would marry him within the new year. At the time, both Thorin and Frerin had suspected that poor Heptifili had not even been properly informed of such a plan, if the way he had almost choked on his mutton at Dís’s announcement had been anything to go by.

In any case, the engagement had been sealed shortly after. Dís might not have had Thorin’s temper or Frerin’s easy way, but she possessed an unrelenting nature; she was, in this regard, the one who resembled their grandmother most - the Queen under the Mountain who had held her ground for years against her husband’s declining state of mind. With the late Queen, Dís shared the sharp awareness of her royal status, but also the quick, dry humour, and like her grandmother Dís loved and hated fiercely.

Thus the first years of her marriage to Heptifili had not been easy, and Fíli had been born too soon to such a young and inexperienced couple. Thorin had found himself repeatedly involved in the newlyweds’ fights, and in their struggle to cope with a little dwarfling bursting with energy. Nannies were not unknown to Khazâd, but it was generally agreed that such matters had to be left in the hands of the dwarfling’s parents or closest relatives. Moreover Dís had been too protective and proud to ask for help outside her family.

Thus Thorin had ended up spending a considerable amount of his time with his first nephew.

It was natural - Fíli was not only his sister-son, but also the next heir in line to the throne after Thorin. One day Erebor’s crown would skip both Dís and Frerin, and befall Fíli. In truth at the beginning Thorin’s connection with Fíli had been more about his affection for Dís than about anything else. He cared for his sister, and he felt that he shared with her more than with anyone else - though he would never willingly grant her such knowledge, since she was interfering enough as it was. Fíli was her first-born, this alone would have been enough to make Thorin fond of the dwarfling.

Besides, Fíli’s birth had also made it less indispensable for Thorin to marry. Dutiful to an excess and hardly inclined to dalliances as he was, Thorin had always known that his preference lay with males. It was not thought a shame among Khazâd, especially considering that females were few and several forms of bonding between Khazâd of the same sex were well-known and respected.

Yet such an inclination would have been greatly opposed by Thorin’s father the King, as well as by Erebor’s people if it had been threatening the Durin lineage. Thorin would have been forced to marry for the throne’s sake, and encouraged to produce an heir as soon as possible - and in the end he would have done it rather than avoiding his duty as heir. Fíli’s birth had resolved such a deadlock, making his uncle even more inclined to appreciate the dwarfling’s presence in his life.

This was not all though. When Fíli had been but a whining toddler Thorin had loved him for his mother’s sake and for having spared him a marriage of convenience, now Thorin loved him for his own sake. Fíli had some of Dís’s stubborn streak, but unlike her he seldom acted from sheer brashness. He was thoughtful and faced every task put before him with such a serious disposition that even older Khazâd usually respected him without any complacency. Although Fíli was still too young to understand what sort of responsibility he bore as Thorin’s heir, he seemed to have grasped enough of it; the idea of his future duty had certainly made an impression on the dwarfling’s mind, and Thorin’s example had done the rest.

This did not mean that Fíli was never childish, or that his whims were always reasonable, but Thorin was proud of him all the same and he did not shirk from spending time with his nephew or keeping an eye on his progress with his masters.  

“He’s asleep,” Dís said, a smile in her voice.  

Thorin stopped mid-sentence. He looked down at Fíli, and saw him sleeping with his mouth half-open and his hands clutching the fur. Thorin grunted at the sight; he quietly closed the book and put it on the nightstand. 

“Do you want me to carry him to your rooms?” he asked his sister.

“Let him rest a while here; Kíli cries every night and we don’t get much sleep. Heptifili seems to be the only one able to calm him down,” Dís sighed, tilting her head. Her golden beads clinked softly among the dark mass of her tresses. “Fíli was really looking forward to your return.”

“You mean he was looking forward to someone else to tire out,” Thorin replied, snorting. “Both your sons are far too bouncy for anyone to survive them. I cannot think how it will be as soon as Kíli starts growing up. I foretell years of mischief and embarrassment before us all.”

“Stop with this _grumpy uncle_ pretence,” Dís chuckled, and bit her fingertips as she always did when she wanted to keep quiet. Her eyes gleamed with amusement while she whispered: “You’ll love it when Kíli gets be older and you have _two_ nephews to instruct about the many nuances of frowning and scolding.”

“I’ve never taught Fíli anything like that,” Thorin protested half-heartedly.

“You did even worse, you set an example,” Dís pointed out. “And Fíli reminds me of you as a child; no, it’s even better - it seems that only when you two are together you manage to be childish at last.”

“What nonsense,” Thorin frowned, annoyed by his sister’s comment on his behaviour.

As if Dís had nothing better to do than observing his moods!

“Oh you were such a serious child, nadad,” Dís smiled, shifting on the bed to rub the knuckles of her hand on Thorin’s cheek. It was not the open-handed caress she reserved to her children or her husband, it was something shy and rough at the same time - the caress of a younger sister to her older, far more serious brother. “You were so damn stern and humourless at times, and usually so solemn that Frerin and I were half-scared to talk to you,” she murmured.

“This is a lie,” the prince protested. “I don’t remember ever keeping you or Frerin from chattering or getting into trouble.”

“We’ve loud personalities, Frerin and I,” Dís answered, unconcerned. She lowered her hand and looked at Thorin. “Still, you were the sort of child who scares his peers and ends up playing all alone. If you ever did something akin to playing; I mean, it seems as if you spent all your childhood training and learning and mimicking our father and grandfather.”

“Yet it wasn’t enough,” Thorin replied through his teeth, “since you and adad thought that it would do me good to travel West when I should have stayed here, where my presence is needed.”

“Mahal, are you still mad at me for _that_ after almost a year since your return?” Dís asked, raising her eyebrow. “You know it was Tharkûn’s idea in the first place; Balin supported it, and adad thought that there was some wisdom in it.”

“If you had backed me in my refusal, adad might have changed his mind,” Thorin reproached her, though he managed to keep his voice low enough to not disturb Fíli’s sleep. “But you were perfectly convinced that there wouldn’t have been a better experience for me. And I had to spent months on the road and then months in another country, while Frerin was allowed to stay in Erebor. He’s the younger brother, he should be the one sent on this kind of journey.”

“You’d never been so averse to journeying before.”

“Journeying?” Thorin snorted. “That was more like an _exile_. You’ve no idea what it was to spend weeks in the Shire among halflings. It felt like a punishment.”

“All the time?” Dís asked, smirking. “I was under the impression that the food was quite good, at least from what Dwalin said about it. And that this Master Baggins did not fail you as a host.”

“I wasn’t talking about Master Baggins.”

“Neither was I,” Dís was swift in her reply. “I was simply pointing out that despite your complaints and the poor results of the negotiations with the melekûnh, the experience did not damage you. In fact you seem to have become an authority about halflings and the region they inhabit. Speaking of it, what was it called by our ancestors?”

“ _Armukhakkar_ ,” Thorin answered. “But not even the Khazâd from Ered Luin use its old name. To most it’s just the Shire.”

“The uncivilised West,” Dís mused. “where halflings walk bare-footed. Truly, it was the only thing we knew about them before your exotic tales of the Shire, and we only half-believed it. Frerin and I wondered whether you’d come back with your boots on or they would convert you to their customs.”

“This is exactly why Frerin should have been sent there,” Thorin grumbled.

“Oh, you are the heir to the throne. Frerin will remain a prince all his life: son of a king, brother of a king, uncle of a king - and never a king himself. He’s pleased with the idea of the freedom he’ll enjoy as much as I’m displeased with the idea that I’ll never be Queen under the Mountain,” Dís murmured, with a regret which was only half-pretend. “But you’ll be king one day, and your habit of abusing the ambassadors from Greenwood wasn’t king-like. Even adad, who has always had a soft spot for you, could see that.”

“Adad has a soft spot for _you_ ,” Thorin corrected her. “And, by the way, I fail to see how treating with melekûnh should have helped me with Thranduil’s ambassadors.”

“I’m sure it was something about appreciating different opinions and cultures.”

“I do not see any point in that, when khuthûzh are...” Thorin began, but his sister pressed her hand over his mouth, cutting off his approaching tirade against elves.

“Hush down,” she murmured. “Hepti disproves of such language, and he thinks that Fíli is learning it from me.”

“He’s learning it from Frerin,” Thorin mumbled against her fingers. Dís sighed and took her hand away. In truth Fíli was still snoring into the fur, perfectly ignorant of his mother and uncle discussing his education. “But as long as Fíli uses it for elves I must approve of it,” the prince added, under his breath.

“You were supposed to come back from the Shire in a better mood...and you still wonder why I supported adad’s decision to send you on a diplomatic mission! I know Thranduil’s behaviour when Smaug came was not that of a _Khazâd-bâhu_ , but...”

“We might have burnt for all he cared,” Thorin growled, growing tense at the memory. “What other proof of falsehood and cowardice do I need? We should loathe the thought of such deceitful creatures as allies. For all their manners and haughtiness, they turned their back on us when their help was most sorely needed,” the prince hissed.

“They repented and then helped us repair the damage caused by the dragon. Besides, you certainly remember that our relationship with Greenwood had grown strained in grandfather’s last years. Although it wasn’t a good reason to let our Mountain burn, you’ll admit that some of the things udad did at the time...”

“I know the faults of King Thrór,” Thorin answered coldly. “Yet they _betrayed_ us.”

“You never liked them in the first place,” Dís commented, shrugging. “Neither did I. But I suppose that taking violent dislikes to most folk runs in the family. With the exception of Frerin, who has made a point of being sociable with whoever he meets - to annoy you and adad, obviously enough. The point is that if Frerin or I make a joke about the elves, we’re but the younger and irresponsible siblings...but you’ll be King under the Mountain, Thorin! You cannot risk making enemies such as King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. You see how adad is: not a lesser King than udad was, yet he never takes his pride so far as to damage Erebor’s relations with our neighbours. When he decided to bury the thrice-damned stone with udad in the depth of the Mountain, he was right - whatever you thought and said at the time.” Dís took a deep breath, and added: “We cannot have _that_ sort of King, not again.”    

Thorin had lowered his eyes to Fíli. He could not stand holding Dís’s gaze while she was talking to him in that tone as if she was _begging_ him. It was not the first time she had breached such a topic and it was not in his sister’s nature to avoid speaking her mind, but it was the pleading note in Dís’s voice which hurt him. She was truly worried that he could be exposed to the same madness that had befallen their grandfather, and she was asking him to do all in his power to resist it.

Maybe motherhood had sharpened her awareness of the sort of dangers they had faced in Thrór’s times, when the King’s mind had been filled with suspicions, and his accusations had fallen even upon those most loyal to the crown. _One time_ , Thorin remembered - one time his grandfather had almost condemned his own son to be imprisoned in the depths of the Mountain because he had spoken against the merciless pressure put on the miners by Thrór’s greed for gems and gold. Then, when Smaug had come...

Nonetheless, it was cruel of Dís to nurture Thorin’s own fears about the sort of traits he could have inherited from their grandfather. Even crueller when her son was sleeping between them, and Thorin could swear on his own head that no greed nor pride could make him forget his fondness for his own blood.

He strived to prove her wrong, to prove _them_ wrong - he was not his grandfather, nor would he ever be. If sometimes he gave in to his bad mood, it was _his_ temper, not his grandfather’s; if he sported a hostile attitude toward Elves or others, it was _his_ hostility, not his grandfather’s; if he made mistakes, they were _his own_ for he was not repeating his grandfather’s errors.

“It’s a pity you haven’t planned to slaughter me in my own bed,” Thorin answered at last, with great coldness, “since you’re so worried about the King I’ll make.”

“That was Frerin’s proposal, but it had more to do with your last furious reprimand for his flirting with the wife of the Master of the Engineers’ Guild than with your future as King,” Dís replied dryly. “I’m just saying that it’s not all in books and traditions and never changing your mind.”

“Why should I change my mind when I’m right?”

“You _did_ change your mind about the melekûnh.”

“What? _When_?” Thorin spluttered, caught by surprise by the sudden return to the earlier topic.

Actually, it seemed as if everyone wanted to hear about the Shire. It was not entirely surprising - most of the Khazâd in Erebor would never visit the Shire in their lifetime, since those lands were not on the ordinary routes followed by dwarves. The West of the halflings was a distant, exotic place which stirred the curiosity and the imagination of many a Khuzd, starting with Thorin’s own siblings. Thus, since their return, Thorin and his companions had been exposed to a wide array of questions about the Shire and its inhabitants. If Balin had been pleased to offer his King and his Council long and detailed reports on the diplomatic work in the Shire, Thorin had been far more disgruntled about all the inquires about the melekûnh and their ways. What he most despised was the suggestion that he had somehow entertained a privileged relationship with their host, and that that put him in the best position to describe hobbit customs.    

“Master Baggins gifted you with this book, didn’t he?” Dís hinted.

“Should I be held responsible for his decision to write a tale?” the prince asked, stiffening.

“Balin says that Master Baggins was extremely polite and generous during your entire stay in his house, and he gave small gifts to Dwalin and Balin as well before you left. So I won’t pry into _his_ reasons to give you this little present,” Dís conceded. “But it’s quite strange that you kept the halfling’s gift rather than throwing it in the first river you crossed, and even decided that it was good enough to be given to Fíli.”

“Fíli adores it,” Thorin mumbled, feeling somewhat cornered.

“Fíli has good taste, but I wouldn’t be so sure about yours,” his sister smiled. “You never touch any of the gifts King Thranduil sends for Durin’s Day every year.”

“The fact that I prefer a melekûn’s gift to the gift of a traitor means hardly anything at all. Moreover, I don’t remember having ever praised our host more than Balin did. And whatever praise I may have muttered on Master Baggins’ account does not befall all the melekûnh in the Shire. Quite the contrary.”

“So he’s _different_.”

The corners of Dís’s mouth twitched upwardly.

“He’s arrogant and particular,” Thorin replied grimly. “He prides himself on the most insignificant things, and collects the sort of scraps a Khuzd would not pay a single coin for. He has no taste to speak of, except his taste for food. He talks too much, and laughs at the oddest things. He’s polite to a fault, and eager to please; many of his ideas are narrow-minded and he’s ridiculously prim. He’s a pedantic, fussy, annoying weak creature who would not survive a single day in the wilderness; and, fortunately for him, he has no intention of leaving the comforts of his little garden.” The prince stopped for a moment at that, taking a deep breath to ease down the frustration building in his throat. “How could you think that I liked him?”

“I don’t think that you liked him,” Dís answered, genially. “Actually I think you _disliked_ him. Yet, you disliked him less than many others, even among Khazâd. And, you being you, this accounts for something.”

Thorin pulled a face at his sister’s reply. He was sure that she was somehow winning their argument, but he could not put his finger on it.

What annoyed Thorin most was the fact that this feeling of having been beaten seemed to be peculiarly connected with Master Baggins. Back in the Shire, the melekûn had often left Thorin under the impression of defeat, and now even talking about Master Baggins trod on Thorin’s mood. It made the prince feel dull, and injudicious; it riled him up with the very sound of Master Baggins’ name on his sister’s mouth.

Whatever retaliation Thorin might have planned for Dís’s insistence on the topic, Fíli’s awakening put an end to it. The dwarfling yawned, showing the hollow of his mouth and when he spoke his voice had lost some of his previous seriousness - tired, Fíli sounded like the young khuzdûn he was.

“Amad, I want milk and honey before sleeping.”

Dís rolled her eyes, but Thorin could see that she would not refuse Fíli such a little whim. Besides drinking a cup of hot milk excessively sweetened with honey before going to sleep or when abruptly waken in the middle of the night had been Dís’s habit before her son’s. She had tried to pass her taste for milk and honey on to Thorin and Frerin when they had been children, and then to Hepti once married, but only Fíli shared her preference.  

“Then hop off the bed, mimul,” Dís answered her son. Still she helped him slip down the mattress and stand on his numb legs. Fíli leant into his mother’s embrace, with his blond head against her belly and tears in his eyes from yawning. “You go to sleep,” Dís said to Thorin, flashing him a smile. 

“Thank you for the story, irak’adad,” Fíli mumbled, trying to straighten his shoulders. “You can keep Master Baggins’ book for me.”

“I will,” Thorin promised, pressing his large hand onto Fíli’s golden head for a brief moment.

“Come on, mimul. Let your uncle go back to sleep,” Dís encouraged her son, as soon as Thorin had taken his hand away. “Take your rest, nadad. Tomorrow it’s audience day,” she reminded her brother.

“As if I could have forgotten that,” the prince grumbled.

He watched Dís nudge Fíli toward the door, and again he heard them bid him good night. Then Thorin slouched down onto his pillows. He should have fallen asleep, considering that the following morning dwarves and not would be queuing in the great hall to speak about their problems and trifles with the King under the Mountain.

Dozens of stories and claims and complaints - lies too, hidden among half-truths; the hall would ring with the sound of their boots and the murmurs accompanying each sentence leaving the King’s mouth. Many would just come to see the King from afar, and admire the jewels and the bearing of Durin’s line. This was to be expected on the audience day, when his father the King would comply with his duty of the _Kataühybîr_ , and offer to any living creature the chance to speak directly with the sovereign himself.

On such a day even the humblest Khuzd could speak with the King, provided that he lined up since dawn in the hope to be admitted to the King’s presence before dusk, when the Kataühybîr would end. Everyone who offered his or her own story to the rite of the Kataühybîr had to accept the King’s judgement, and Thorin’s father was renowned as fair but intransigent. Yet Khazâd seemed to appreciate this tradition, and it was renewed every full moon; sometimes even men from Dale or wanderers submitted themselves to the King’s verdicts.       

The Kataühybîr was an old tradition, older than the Kingdom under the Mountain. During the years of Thrór’s madness the custom had dwindled along with the King’s own morality; during the last few years before Smaug’s attack the audience day had been a painful reminder of Thrór’s declining state of mind. Yet Thorin had never escaped his duty as prince, and never failed to be present at the Kataühybîr when he was in Erebor.

The first time Thorin had attended it he had been hardly more than a dwarfling. He had seen a khuzdûn flogged for having insulted a khuzdinh who had refused his courtship; and he had seen another touching the floor with his forehead to honour the King’s justice. From that moment on, Thorin’s understanding of the laws had improved - the theory he had studied in books and the lessons he had been taught by his master, had become real in the voice of his grandfather, in the blood dripping from the whip, in the beards sweeping the ground when the Khazâd thanked the King for his word.

Although Thorin disliked the arbitrary succession of postulants for his father’s judgement and found no pleasure in most of their stories, he respected the rite. He knew that the King needed the Kataühybîr as much as his subjects did for it was the pure expression of the King’s right to judge, grace, and condemn.

It was not something to take pleasure in - it was simply Erebor’s order, and one day it would be Thorin’s duty to perpetuate it.

 

Still it was not the thought of the Kataühybîr which kept Thorin awake.

It was, instead, the Shire which gleamed green and gold in his memory; it was the blurred echo of the melekûn’s voice when he had read his tale to Thorin under the beech trees. Thorin was convinced that he would not have devoted so many thoughts to his stay in the Shire had he not been constantly reminded of it. If his nephew had not been so fond of Master Baggins’ tale, the book would have been buried in some chest and soon forgotten; if his sister and his father had not often inquired about the Shire, the sight of its meadows and ponds would have faded from Thorin’s mind; if Master Baggins’ name had not been repeated again and again, a couple of months would have been enough to forget the ridiculous creature who bore it. But Thorin’s recollections were not allowed to rest and grow fainter - in fact they were prickled with a regularity that made him feel victim of some conspiracy.

Thorin had hardly any time to waste thinking about the Shire and its inhabitants. He had duties and worries, and he spent a good deal of time hunting, sparring, reading, writing, and playing his harp. He had been educated as a prince, and most of those activities were both pleasure and duty to him - as heir he felt obliged to improve his culture as well as his prowess. Thus, it would be an error to think that Thorin might have had any desire to be distracted, or that he meant to indulge in his memories of his stay at Bag End.

It is entirely possible that Thorin would have put out of his mind both the Shire and Master Baggins, had he not heard the hobbit’s name so frequently. But it is also true that it was in Thorin’s nature to dwell upon the past; thoughts of what had been in the Shire crept upon him unexpectedly and were not always unwelcome. Actually Thorin was rather amused by the persistence of Master Baggins’ memory, since it reminded him of the melekûn’s own determination to get in his way at every opportunity.

Yet Thorin’s thoughts about Master Baggins were sometimes muddled with guilt.

It was not as if he had lied about Master Baggins - when his sister or someone else invited him to talk of the melekûnh and their land, Thorin spoke the truths he believed in; when the discourse turned to Master Baggins, the prince was not less sincere - he had truly found their host arrogant and particular, and he did remember how annoyingly the halfling could behave. He had admitted to having grown to respect the Master of Bag End and appreciate his company as well.

However, talking of Master Baggins often left Thorin uneasy. A strange feeling indeed, considering that his opinion about Master Baggins was not (as his sister had pointed out) worse than his opinion on many others. In fact Thorin held to have bestowed a great honour upon Master Baggins, who was but a melekûn - though higher than any other in Thorin’s esteem. Still this discomfort seemed there to remind him that he had kept his own secrets; he had not lied, but he had not spoken the whole truth.

First, Thorin was certainly more inclined to point out Master Baggins’ flaws rather than to acknowledge his qualities; as he had regretted his passionate words about Erebor that first night in Bag End, Thorin was shy of admitting the pleasure he had taken in the melekûn’s company. Second, there was the kiss.   

The melekûn had wanted to kiss him - of this Thorin felt confident. He was not mistaken on this matter, not when he remembered quite well the way Master Baggins had leant against him - the warmth of his shoulder pressed against his, the speckles of light falling from the beech leaves onto the halfling’s cheeks, the black roundness of his blown-up pupils.

And Thorin, well, Thorin had been in such a strange mood that day. He had felt thrilled at the idea of leaving the Shire and returning to his beloved Mountain; the pleasure he had anticipated in his homecoming had softened his spirit, and he had fallen prey to that melancholic state which usually urged his fingers to the strings of his harp, to turn his bittersweet mood into songs.

That time the prince had not played his harp. He had already admitted to himself that he had consciously sought the halfling’s reaction to his departure. He had wanted to know that Master Baggins was affected by his company; he had wanted to see it on his cheeks, and to hear it in his voice. Thus he had plucked Master Baggins’ feelings as he would have done his harp’s strings.

Vanity had played a part in Thorin’s behaviour as well as greed for something so unexpected as the melekûn’s desire to kiss him, but there had also been his gratitude toward Master Baggins, renewed by the gift of the tale for Fíli. Thorin had never looked upon the melekûn in such a favourable light before. The lazy atmosphere of the afternoon had weakened his self-control and put him in a flippant mood, which usually had no place in the prince’s conduct.  

It had taken Thorin some time to realise what had happened between him and the melekûn. At the time those feelings had been unclear - stronger had been the awareness that they could have kissed at their leisure, far from prying eyes and sharp tongues, but also far from their usual selves. Unseen in a foreign land, Thorin could have stolen one kiss or many, taking something for himself and himself alone. Not for Erebor, not for his future as King, but for the pleasure of closing his hand over Master Baggins’ neck and feeling the flutter of the melekûn's blood at being kissed.

Thorin did not remember to have ever thought about kissing Master Baggins before the end of his stay in the Shire. If he had nurtured some physical craving for their host, he had hidden it even from himself and never acknowledged it. No, he had never fantasised about Master Baggins - he was perfectly ready to deny it.

The mere thought of seducing a melekûn, or being seduced in return, was preposterous. Thorin could hardly have been described as the flirting type, and normally he would not have reserved such attention for someone who was not even a Khuzd. So he ascribed his surprising willingness to indulge the melekûn as a by-product of his stay in the West - he had been so filled with self-pity for what he still called his _exile_ , and so exposed to bask in Master Baggins’ sympathy, that he had almost given in to such an absurd urge.

 _Almost_ , since in the end they had not kissed.

The point was that neither of them had filled the gap and taken the last step. Thus the moment had passed and vanished from sight. They had slipped apart from each other even before they had actually straightened their back and looked away. It had been Master Baggins who had blinked and opened his eyelids again, then broken eye-contact first - or maybe it had been Thorin. But it had certainly been the melekûn who had cleared his throat and said something about dinner.

They had already taken their leave from the Thain and the other melekûnh gathered in Hobbiton for the last meeting; that night they had dined with their host alone. Thorin did not remember any awkwardness between them. It had been as if they had not really been so close to kissing. The dinner had been as tasteful and filling as any other they had had in Bag End, and Master Baggins had been as lively a host as ever; they had talked in Balin’s and Dwalin’s presence, and they had looked at each other over the display of dishes.

It had suited the prince, this forgetfulness. Only when he had found himself on the road he had really thought about what had happened. And he had kept his secret from his friends, and then from his family. It was not even a proper secret. There was nothing mysterious about it, nothing dangerous; it was but a thing Thorin did not wish to discuss with others.

Thorin had realised, some days later in the wilderness beyond Bree, that Master Baggins probably shared his preference for males. It would not have been such a remarkable thing among Khazâd, since love and desire between dwarves of the same sex was seldom regarded as inappropriate. But Thorin had not failed to notice that only opposite-sex marriages were celebrated in the Shire, and he had never caught a glimpse of anyone steering out of such a path. Melekûn seemed inclined to some recklessness in their youth, but they abandoned their thoughtless games as they got older; if they ever tasted pleasures different from those observed in marriage, they kept their secrets to themselves, and consumed their passion unseen and unheard.

So, even if Master Baggins had never talked about such a topic, Thorin had guessed that their host’s inclination had played some part in his isolation and reputation for madness. Trapped in his own kin’s sense of propriety, Master Baggins lived in a house with too many rooms for a bachelor. His character, his love for books, his curiosity, had made the rest; it was even possible that his preferences had never been discussed aloud among the other melekûnh - still, they were another stain on his name.

As soon as he had understood this, Thorin had felt cross on the melekûn’s behalf. And part of him had even worried about the sort of mistake he had been so close to making. Thorin would have kissed Master Baggins out of curiosity, but what would the kiss have meant to the melekûn? In truth he did not know hobbit customs so deeply to be sure that his kiss would not have had serious consequences. He might have damaged Master Baggins’ honour, or - even worse - he might have kindled feelings which would have been inappropriate on Master Baggins’ part. The melekûn would have been upset without reason, and Thorin would have betrayed his trust and hospitality.

Therefore some days Thorin was glad that he had not done it. It would have been foolish and utterly meaningless; it would have been futile and even unkind to take such a trivial pleasure at the expense of the melekûn’s sensibility.

This Thorin said to himself when he did not want to regret his hesitation, but there were other times when the dwarf regretted having been denied such a chance to kiss their host. He could not be sure that he would have enjoyed the experience, yet he could not help wondering how it would have been - whether the lack of beard would have put him off, whether he would have had to take the lead in the kiss and teach Master Baggins a few tricks, whether the melekûn would have kept his hands off him or not.

All these ideas, these half-dreams and questions Thorin ran over in his mind after Dís and Fíli had left. And when his eyelids became heavy with sleep, he reproached himself for having allowed his mind to wander down such paths. _It hardly matters_ , Thorin repeated to himself. It was not as if he was going to meet the halfling again; it was not as if Master Baggins - _Bilbo_ \- was going to materialise in Erebor from thin air.

With such comforting certainty soothing his distress on the topic of the melekûn, Thorin fell asleep.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  _Adad_ : father  
>  _Amad_ : mother  
>  _Armukhakkar_ : the Shire  
>  _Kataühybîr_ : to listen carefully  
>  _Khazâd-bâhu_ : friend of the Dwarves  
>  _Mimul_ : little-like (I used it as an endearment)  
>  _Nadad_ : brother  
>  _Irak’adad_ : uncle  
>  _Irakdashat_ : nephew (sister-son).  
>  _Udad_ : grandfather


	6. Kataühybîr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now benefits of a splendid piece of fanart by [tosquinha](http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/).  
> Keep reading and you'll be delighted!

The Kataühybîr was held in the great hall, where dozens of bridges met and parted creating a regular pattern of stairs and ramps, open galleries and terraces, all looking down at the lower levels of the inner city. Hundreds of torches burnt in the great hall and their light was multiplied by silver mirrors nestled in pillars and vaults. Thus the hall glimmered golden, green, and blue, while the abyss opening his jaws under the bridges throbbed with the lights of the lower quarters, looking as if the dwarves had ensnared a piece of night sky to serve as their Mountain’s core.

Such a sight was familiar to Thorin and hardly breathtaking anymore, yet he could not help feeling his heart and lungs expand as if they wanted to fill the place, beating and breathing under every arch, up every terrace, down to the Mountain’s roots. This was his home, and he knew and loved every corner and carving he could lay his eyes upon from his place on the smaller throne at his father’s side - the throne which had been his mother’s.

“What is Tharkûn doing here?” King Thráin mumbled under his breath, as soon as he spotted the zigrâl.

It would have been impossible to miss him. Not only did Tharkûn easily tower over the crowd of dwarves convened for the Kataühybîr, but his very presence had excited the gathering. Despite the fact that Tharkûn had been in Erebor many times, he still attracted glances and rumours as a novelty would have done - probably because every one of Tharkûn’s visits ended up feeding the curiosity and astonishment of Erebor’s folk, much to the satisfaction of the zigrâl’s vanity.

This time promised to be no different.

Tharkûn had no need to appear at the Kataühybîr. No guard in Erebor would have stopped Tharkûn from speaking with the King in private, and not only because the King had accorded him the great honour of being called _Khazâd-bâhu_. Many feared him and Thorin regarded their fears as quite sensible. He had met Tharkûn for the first time in his childhood and he remembered how the zigrâl had never spared his grandfather Thrór any reproach - in Thorin’s childhood memory Tharkûn’s fury comprised the sound of thunder and the deadliness of the harshest winter.

Yet it had not been enough to cure Thrór of his sickness and for many years Tharkûn had not set foot in Erebor. He had returned shortly after Smaug’s destruction, offering help and advice to the new King under the Mountain. Since then he had become a familiar sight for Thorin and his family - at least as familiar as a wandering zigrâl can be. Still, a great mystery surrounded Tharkûn and Thorin did not delude himself into thinking that they would ever be able to read Tharkûn’s mind.

More than two years had passed since Tharkûn’s last visit. Thorin remembered all too well what had happened the last time - Tharkûn had suggested to the King that Thorin would profit from a journey to the Western lands and the prince had found himself on the road to the Shire.

Tharkûn stood among the crowd, tall as ever and with his face half-shadowed under his hat’s large brim.

“I have no idea,” Thorin replied to his father. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

“Blasted zigrâl,” Thráin grunted, but there was some fondness in his voice.

Then father and son paid attention to the postulant speaking.      

“With Your Majesty’s support, our enterprise would thrive and the initial expenses would be covered in no time. We have a hundred ideas and we’re utterly impatient to get to work on them. Funding our shop will buy you our deepest gratitude, Your Majesty, and that of a thousand little customers who have never seen such marvellous toys like the ones we’re going to craft and sell,” the dwarf declared, actually winking at the King and smiling so broadly that Thorin thought his moustache might even fall. “And we would obviously be honoured to gift the royal dwarflings with our best creations!”

Such a display of generosity was followed by a theatrical bow.

“What do you have to say, Master Heptifili?” the King asked, tilting his head and shooting a glance at his councillor and son-in-law.

Thorin frowned, noticing that his father still persisted in the habit of calling Hepti _master_ , rather than acknowledging that he had ascended the rank of prince by marriage. It was probably the way his father kept reminding Hepti how he had been displeased at having had his hand forced in the matter of his daughter’s marriage.

Thorin did not think that his father would have prohibited it. It would have taken some persuasion and the King would have probably tried to suggest richer and nobler suitors to Dís - their cousin Dain, for instance. But in the end, Thráin would have bent to Dís's wishes as he had always done; besides, Heptifili had conquered the King’s approval quite soon in his career and he was high-born. The whole matter would have been solved in a far more discreet way, if Dís had not decided to play the part of the tragic lover and announce her engagement to Hepti to the court without any warning. The King had probably been more furious at having been kept ignorant of what was going on between his daughter and his youngest councillor, rather than at the marriage itself. Thráin still held a grudge and Hepti’s new title had never really caught in Erebor - he was still _Master Heptifili_ to most, and the King seemed so thoroughly pleased with such a result that he was hardly ever displeased with Hepti on other matters.

“Master Bofur presented his plans three times, Your Majesty,” Hepti replied, taking a quick look at the notes covering his desk. “The Artisans’ Guild Master has refused to fund his enterprise on the grounds of the many competitors already in the market. He has also motivated his rejection with the fact that neither Master Bofur nor his partners possess any relevant experience of crafting and shopkeeping, and they have never been apprentices in Erebor.”

“That’s because we come from Ered Luin!” Master Bofur exclaimed, clapping his hand on his belt and looking unconcerned at the idea of having interrupted the councillor’s report. “Our family was in Khazâd-dum, then moved to Ered Luin, where we were born and raised. Then, again, we moved to Erebor and we’ve been living and working here enough to call Erebor home.”

“Working as miners,” Heptifili pointed out impassively.

During the Kataühybîr the King was assisted by two or more councillors, whose duty it was to help him with the details of the cases presented to his judgement. The councillors had to retrieve documents, proofs, testimonial which might interest the King: the Kataühybîr was usually characterised by the coming and going of messengers and servants charged with the most diverse tasks, increasing the frenetic atmosphere. It was not, in Thorin’s opinion, the best way to administer the King’s justice, but its importance as a symbol of the King’s prerogative could not be ignored.

Balin and Heptifili, the designated councillors for that day’s Kataühybîr, sat on a lower level than the King and his heir. Balin was still dictating some notes on the previous case to young Ori, one of the scribes employed by the King’s Council, while Hepti peered at Master Bofur from behind his carved desk.

“Is it true that you work in the mines?” King Thráin asked Master Bofur.

“It’s true that I work there,” the dwarf admitted, “but that doesn’t make me a miner. I am a toymaker and I would gladly prove it to Your Majesty. Would you take a look at our creations?”

Thráin waved his hand to give his consent and Master Bofur looked back toward the crowd. The guards watching over the postulants and the audience made way for a couple of dwarves, who carried something wrapped in ropes and sheets between them.

From his throne, Thorin observed the two dwarves depositing their burden beside Master Bofur. Then they stood under the King’s gaze, and their pride mingled with shyness and trepidation.

“This is my brother Bombur,” Master Bofur said, presenting the fat dwarf at his right. Turning to the other dwarf at his left, he added: “This is my cousin Bifur.”

“Master Bombur works in the royal kitchen,” Balin pointed out, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses on his nose to take a better look at the dwarves.

“That’s right,” Master Bombur said, looking as if he was quite proud of it after all.

“Two miners and a cook who want to be toymakers,” the King commented under his breath. “Let us see what you have brought,” he added loudly.

First, Master Bofur and his cousin uncovered a metal box and opened it to reveal a dozen small animals painted in bright colours. There were rabbits, chickens, a small fawn, several mice, and a craven. They all sported a key on their back or belly and the aspiring toymakers wound them up before setting them on the floor. Then the rabbits began to hop, the chickens moved their necks pecking at invisible grains, the fawn staggered toward the throne as if it had just come out from its mother’s womb, the mice ran with their round ears turning and quivering, while the craven flapped his wings and even rose in mid-air for a few moments before landing among the chickens and scaring them out of his way. It was all well staged and Thorin could see that Master Bofur looked at his creations with something akin to affection; his brother and his cousin, on the other hand, had their eyes fixed on the King, probably hoping to guess his thoughts.

One of the mice came closer to Thorin’s throne, and the prince leant down to grab the small fellow. The mechanical creature shuddered in his palm before stilling. Thorin observed it with a critical eye, prodding at its little wood and metal limbs - as a dwarfling he had not shared his siblings’ love for those sorts of toys, but he had learnt a few things about them and he was able to recognise a good work from a mediocre one.

“What do you do with it?” his father asked him, tilting his head and frowning.

“They’re not bad, but hardly exceptional.,” Thorin replied, pressing his thumb on the mouse’s little snout. Its whiskers, like its ears, were mobile. “I’ve seen many toymakers sell the same kind of toys.”

“I believed you were going to surprise us, Master Bofur,” the King declared, raising his brow.

Some nervousness had crept into Master Bofur’s smile this time, but he did not lose his bright manners. He gestured to his brother and Master Bombur uncovered another of their creations, while Master Bifur was gathering the other toys. He bowed when he stood before Thorin’s throne, and the prince let him have the mouse back. Master Bifur gestured in Iglishmêk his thanks.

“I know the khuzdûn,” Thorin suddenly admitted to his father, as soon as Master Bifur had returned to his cousins’ side. He had not been sure at first, after so many years, but when Master Bifur had come closer it had been impossible to ignore the fragment of axe buried in his forehead.  

“Do you?” King Thráin asked lightly, as he was distracted by the sight of the new automata.

Thorin said nothing then and watched Master Bombur pulling at a crank handle protruding from the big toy. It took Thorin a while to understand what he was seeing. This time the automata was quite large and tall, smaller than Master Bombur but almost as big as Master Bofur. In the confusion of mechanical limbs, Thorin recognised the bulk of a rukhskhai - a great wolf of the wilderness - with his back painted grey and brown and his black jaws sharp with yellow teeth - probably made from bone. There was another figure trapped under the warg, a khuzdûn in his chainmail torn apart by the beast.

Once Master Bombur had winded-up the toy, the warg began snapping his terrible jaw at his victim’s exposed neck, while the khuzdûn struggled in vain and waved his arms and legs, trying to reach the rukhskhai’s head with his axe. The most surprising detail of such a ferocious scene was the wail coming out from the toy. Thorin looked more carefully and finally understood that the sound came from the warg’s belly; there was a compartment there with a set of bellows and pipes which mimicked the warg’s growls and its victim’s pained moans.

Thorin looked around the court, and he could see his own surprise reflected on Heptifili’s and Balin’s faces. Master Ori gave a nervous chuckle, but he quickly pressed his hand over his mouth and turned his head away. The King opened and closed his lips several times, before raising his voice over the howling of the toy.

“This is certainly a surprise, Master Bofur,” he conceded, though he did not sound too pleased with it. Master Bifur and Master Bombur seemed to catch the hint in the King’s voice and looked at each other in worry, but Master Bofur kept his smile well plastered under his moustache. “Well, what do you say, prince Thorin?”

“They’re an eccentric lot,” Thorin commented, eyeing the three dwarves. “And their choice to show us that... _thing_ could be considered almost offensive.”

“Could it?” Thráin repeated, looking attentively at the prince.

“It’s not the kind of entertainment I would suggest for a dwarfling, considering that the rukhskhai is winning over the khuzdûn. It worries me that they did not realise how their toy could put them in such a ridiculous position - offering their King a scene of slaughter, a khuzdûn savaged by a beast! I have been hunting wargs along our borders, my King, as you did in your time; I know their malice and their foul smell, I’ve seen my brothers-in-arms perish at their teeth. How could they make a joke of it?” the prince asked, feeling his own displeasure grow with every word he spoke.

The King nodded.

“I guessed you would say this,” he commented, leaving Thorin slightly baffled. Still, it was not unusual for his father to ask his opinion even when he has already guessed it or he had made up his mind on his own. It was a test for Thorin’s clarity of judgement and often left him frustrated. “What do my councillors say of these khuzdûnh?”

“They are all known to be reliable workers,” Hepti replied, while Balin nodded his agreement. “And well-loved among their peers. Master Bifur fought in prince Thorin’s company in the campaign to clean our West border from the orcs.”

“That’s where you know him from.”.

“I didn’t recall him at first, but now I see that he’s one of those who fought at my side when we hunted the orc pack even beyond our border, until the last one was killed. I believe that Master Bifur earned the wound on his head in that occasion. I can vouchsafe for his courage in battle and his ability with the axe. I also have to confess that I hadn’t thought of him until today and I didn’t know that he was working in the mines.”

These words Thorin did not reserve to his father’s ear, but spoke in a loud voice, as to make them heard clearly by the whole crowd. He truly felt that he had failed Master Bifur, not recognising him at first and greeting him as a brother-in-arms. Thorin had always believed the truest honour to be achieved in battle, and he thought that even the humblest Khuzd could ascend to higher ranks through brave deeds. Yet Master Bifur had not been repaid for his courage, if he still struggled by his cousins’ side to have a position in Erebor.

Master Bifur had frozen at the first mention of his past deeds, but now he stared before him with his hands behind his back and a look of quiet dignity on his face.  

“I see,” the King said, straightening his back against the carved stone of his throne. “Master Heptifili, Master Balin, take note of my decision. Master Bofur, Master Bombur, and Master Bifur will be accorded the funds to start their business as toymakers,” and he raised his hand to prevent Master Bofur from speaking his gratitude. “But they will have to report to Balin every month, showing him their progress and profit. As soon as Balin deems it possible, they will repay their debt to the throne. Balin will also supervise the design of their toys and make sure that they are appropriate for the public. If their enterprise thrives, in five years they will be free to proceed without supervision. If it fails, they will repay their debt working in the mines.” Then, as if in a second thought, Thráin added: “And I will take the warg,” pointing his finger at the weird toy.

Thorin frowned at the last part, but he did not contradict his father. While Thráin’s behaviour was usually very sensible and little inclined to eccentricities, Thorin could not deny that some of his siblings’ quirks were inherited from their father. He had no idea what his father meant to do with the monstrous toy, but he feared that he did not intend to destroy it. No, the King would probably present it to the rest of the family, and take some mischievious delight in their surprise and horror.

In the meantime the three newly-made toymakers thanked the King for his generosity and Master Ori wrote down the King’s decision to every syllable, as dictated by Balin. Thorin observed that Master Bifur never spoke a single word, recurring only to gestures; the prince was struck by the idea that Master Bifur’s wound might have compromised his speaking abilities and resolved to make inquiries about it later. The Kataühybîr was not the right place to investigate on the khuzdûn’s health, Thorin would deal with the matter in private.

After the toymakers had left and the warg toy had been taken away, the Kataühybîr could go on. Thorin saw Tharkûn moving to the front of the crowd and dwarves making way for him. Murmurs ran through the crowd, but the zigrâl paid no attention to them and marched directly toward the throne. The platform where the King stood with his court was linked by a bridge to the vast terrace where the postulants waited for their turn; the bridge allowed two dwarves to walk side by side, but no more than that - its narrowness and the abyss below were meant to make the throne area less exposed to attack and easier to defend. Besides, as his father had pointed out in the past, the brief walk over the abyss humbled even the most arrogant visitors and reminded them how easily they could be disposed of.

If Tharkûn was impressed though, his long and resolute strides did not show it. In fact, despite the worn-out, faded clothes and the mud staining them, Tharkûn looked quite formidable. In Thorin’s experience, this meant that Tharkûn wanted to look impressive - in other words, there was something he wanted and he would not relent on the subject, whatever it was. When Tharkûn wished otherwise, he could be unexpectedly inconspicuous.

Tharkûn’s wooden staff punctuated his steps and his grey robe whirled when it caught a draught blowing over the bridge. It was only when the zigrâl was almost at the end of the bridge that Thorin guessed - there was someone in Tharkûn’s company and that someone was attracting the glances of many a dwarf.

Thorin frowned, since Tharkûn’s choice of companions was often disputable. He distinctly remembered the time Tharkûn had brought another zigrâl to Erebor and what great embarrassment had come of it - _Zundushûn_ they had called him then, for he loved birds better than dwarves and men. Still the King had not appreciated when Zundushûn had led a whole flock of magpies into the treasure hall to plunder it. It had taken weeks to retrieve some most valuable heirlooms from the magpies’ nests and to clean up the treasure hall of their droppings. Mahal, Thorin _did_ hope that it was not Zundushûn. But it could not be - the mad zigrâl was not as tall as Tharkûn, yet he could hardly hide behind him as the mysterious companion was doing.

“Thráin, second of his name, son of Thrór son of Dáin, King under the Mountain and heir of Durin...I pay my respects,” Tharkûn said, touching the brim of his hat and bowing - not too much, but enough to please Thráin.

 _This is bad_ , Thorin thought - such a deference to etiquette on Tharkûn’s part was likely to precede some absurd request. But something ruined the effect of Tharkûn’s bow, since his companion bumped into him - he had probably stumbled over the zigrâl's robe in his impatience to get off the bridge. Thorin heard a muffled excuse and saw Tharkûn put up the most innocent expression under the King’s scrutiny.

“I greet you, Tharkûn, my friend. Who do you bring to my halls?” Thráin asked, straight to the point. 

“A dear friend of mine,” Tharkûn replied. Then he turned and wound his arm around his companion, so as to guide him and encourage him to step forward and lower his hood. “May I present to you Master Bilbo Baggins from the Shire?”

Thorin stiffened on his throne, startling even his father the King. He gripped the throne’s armrests and leant forward, dumbstruck by the appearance of Master Baggins in his fathers’ halls. Truth was that Thorin had not recognised the melekûn at first - even when he had lowered his mantle and shown his beardless face - and it had taken Tharkûn’s words to make him realise. Thorin’s mind had not caught up with his eyes, though the melekûn had barely changed since the last time the prince had seen him. Yet Thorin’s memories had faded after so many months and it took him a while to reconcile them with the sight of Master Baggins.

The melekûn was wearing what would probably pass for travel clothes in the Shire. He was bootless and his trousers looked far too light for the season. He had some red coat in the fashion of melekûnh, a brownish cape, and a yellow neckerchief. The idea that someone could have thought of crossing Middle-Earth in those clothes left Thorin speechless and sort of convinced him that he was hallucinating. This would also explain Master Bofur’s warg toy.

Yet, when Thorin accepted the possibility that Master Baggins had come to Erebor, he finally recognised his short curls, though darkened and flattened by the rain; he recognised the round, delicate features of his bright face; he recognised his odd posture - with his hands behind his back, his chin well raised, and an air of petulance all about him.

Then Master Baggins’ eyes fell on Thorin.

For a moment he seemed no less surprised than Thorin had been and the prince wondered if the melekûn had not recognised him. He would have felt slightly hurt, except for the fact that Master Baggins had never seen him in his most formal clothes and wearing all the signs of his status as prince - with the silver chains, the sapphires, the blue velvet and the black fur; with the dark crown upon his head, and sitting high in his carved throne. The sight was probably different from that stored in Master Baggins’ memories. Thorin’s heart found something displeasing in such a thought, as if it had not been the same for him a few moments before.  

Yet, when the melekûn’s face lit up and his lips curled into a vague smile, Thorin felt embarrassed by the very presence of Master Baggins in Erebor. Later he would regret not having spoken first, thus sparing himself the humiliation in front of his father, the councillors, and so many Khazâd.

“Thorin!” Master Baggins said, as if to claim the prince’s attention.

Despite the fact that the melekûn’s voice was far from booming, his joyous thrill accidentally fell in a moment of stark silence; Thorin could feel all the eyes turning upon him and his cheeks grew darker. The familiarity Master Baggins had just used to address him was enough to surprise everyone in the hall and Thorin could almost hear the crowd whisper about this halfling who called their prince by his first name.

Thorin did not wait to discover if the melekûn had realised what sort of mistake he had made, he simply turned his head away. He was even too engrossed in his own shock to listen to Tharkûn; only when his father spoke to him, did Thorin manage to open his mouth.

“Yes, he’s the melekûn who welcomed us into his house,” he said.

What had possessed Tharkûn to bring Master Baggins before the King during the Kataühybîr?

_What is he doing here?_

 

_*_

 

“So I’ve heard you had the most exciting day, _Abanel_!” Frerin exclaimed, slapping Thorin’s back before slouching down into the nearest chair.

Thorin shot him a furious glance and poured other wine in his cup. This time he hoped to be able to drink it rather than spilling it as he had done when Frerin had smacked him.

“I find it amusing and rather unsurprising that you’re still stuck with that _Abanel_ mockery you came up with when you were a dwarfling,” Thorin replied, taking a wary sip from his cup and glancing at his younger brother sideways.

Frerin had been very young when he had started to call him _Abanel_ \- stone of all stones. A brotherly reminder, as Frerin put it, that Thorin’s face would turn into stone if he did not care to smile more.

“It’s not my fault if you were then as you are today, frowning so much that you look exactly like Durin in the carvings,” Frerin pointed out, grinning. “Wait - was that the sort of effect you were hoping to achieve?”

“Was that stupid face the sort of effect _you_ were hoping to achieve?” Thorin grunted.

“This face is well-beloved among the ladies,” Frerin replied, raising his chin and playing with the gold beads in his beard.

“And less among their husbands,” Dís said, entering the room.

She put a hand on Frerin’s head and with the other squeezed Thorin’s shoulder. A moment later she was sitting at Thorin’s side. The princes and the princess would not sit together during dinner - the King would strategically place each one of his sons to take care of the guests. But the hall was still empty except for the guards at the door and the servants preparing the table, so they could share a few moments - something they had had less and less chance to do since Dís’s marriage and the growth of Thorin’s responsibilities.

“I was telling our older and far more serious brother that I’ve heard he had a very eventful day,” Frerin said, all too willing to change the topic from the husbands of his flirts to Thorin’s troubles.

While he strikingly resembled his siblings, Frerin was undoubtedly more charming than both. He had a very fine beard, which he embellished with the most precious beads he could find and braided according to the fleeting fashion or to his even more fleeting moods. His hair were lighter in colour than Dís’s and Thorin’s, and his eyes were flecked with green rather than blue - if Dís and Thorin had taken from their father and grandfather’s side, Frerin showed something of their mother’s appearance. But he had the same sharp nose, and a stranger would have noticed the similarities rather than the differences between him and his siblings. Yet his attitude was - at least on the surface - far more approachable than Thorin’s or Dís’s, and this had made him a great favourite at court.

“First,” Frerin was telling Dís, as if Thorin had not been there glaring at him, “there was the mechanical warg.”

“Oh, I heard that,” Dís chuckled. “Was it really as tasteless as it sounds?”

“From what _I_ ’ve heard, it was a stroke of genius,” Frerin contradicted her, “and if our brother was not so pleased with it, it was only because the khuzdûn under the warg looked exactly like him.”

“It didn’t look like me,” Thorin protested.

 _Fine_ , it had dark hair and blue clothes, but he had thought nothing of it when he had seen the toy. It was not about that - _but trust Frerin to miss the point_ , Thorin thought, growing annoyed by the moment.   

“Wasn’t that why you were so incensed at the sight of that masterpiece?” his younger brother teased him, before turning to look at Dís with a broad smile. “It actually _wails_ , you know. And growls. I’m speaking of the toy, we already knew that about our brother.”

“It didn’t look like me,” Thorin repeated stubbornly.

It seemed as if most of the relationship in his family were built on this constant need to contradict and challenge each other; part of him appreciated the opportunities of confrontation, but another part of him knew that he was more touchy than his siblings and more inclined to bitterness. Thorin sighed and took another sip of wine, until Dís seemed to take pity on him and patted his forearm.

“Don’t brood, nadad,” she said, smiling the sort of smile which should have warned Thorin about what would come after. “We shall judge for ourselves later and see if there’s some resemblance; adad promised to show us the warg after dinner.”

At that, Thorin rolled his eyes.

“I hope to be poisoned before the end of the dinner,” he declared, ignoring Frerin’s snickering about his love of being dramatic.

“Speaking of dinner, I can’t wait to see the sweet halfling who calls our brother by name,” Frerin said, lashing out his best mischievious grin. “Did you hear that, Dís? I would have never thought to see the day someone would be on first-name basis with Thorin. I expect Erebor to fall on itself for the scandal.”

“Did he really call you by first name without any title, before adad and the whole crowd gathered for the Kataühybîr?” Dís inquired, looking less amused than Frerin - and more perplexed.

Dís’s glance embarrassed Thorin more than Frerin’s teasing. His brother was just stricken by the idea of him being on friendly terms with a halfling, but he meant no harm beyond that; while Dís was clearly taken aback by such behaviour on the halfling’s part.

He knew what she was thinking, because he had thought the same in the great hall - that a melekûn who had never set foot in Erebor before had no right to address the prince with such familiarity. Master Baggins was exotic enough with his appearance and did not need to attract any attention with such a display of forwardness toward the prince. Even Tharkûn had shown more respect for the Kataühybîr rite - and even if the zigrâl might not have explained the importance of the Kataühybîr to Master Baggins, how could the melekûn have failed to guess what formalities were required to deal with the King and his son?

To himself Thorin had to admit that Master Baggins had slipped but once. He had been composed and humble for the rest of the audience, speaking only when asked to and bowing before the King before taking his leave. His greetings for Thorin had been a minor sin, not grand enough to be truly scandalous. Still, the prince was annoyed, attributing his displeasure to the untimely use of his name rather than dwelling on how he felt about Master Baggins’ arrival.

“So you were on a first-name basis with him back in the Shire,” Dís insisted.

“I wasn’t,” Thorin lied and he immediately regretted it.

He did not know why he had concealed the truth. It would have been easier to say that he had found Master Baggins deserving and it had been natural to encourage him to call him Thorin - whether Thorin had ever taken any pleasure in it was not a topic he wished to share with his sister. Yet he had lied and could not take his words back without further embarrassment.

“Well, the halfling is either reckless or naive,” Frerin commented. “But I hope you won’t scare him back to the Shire too soon. I mean to learn something about halflings myself.”

Frerin’s light-hearted tone deepened Thorin’s annoyance. He opened his mouth to rebuke his brother, but Balin came to announce them that their father and his guests were on their way. While the servants took care of the last details, the three siblings followed Balin into the antechamber where they waited for their father, who came first with Tharkûn at his side.

Master Baggins came after, wearing a bright green waistcoat and brown trousers; his face was still lined with tiredness from his journey, but he was clean of mud and rain and clearly looking forward to dinner. He bowed at the sight of the princes and the princess, but his greetings were drowned by those of the other guests - it was only by standing at Tharkûn’s side that the melekûn avoided being crushed by the boisterous and arrogant Masters of the Jewellers’ and the Engineers’ Guilds.

Thorin felt tempted to say something to Master Baggins, who looked frightened and thrilled in equal measure. But he could not do so without others hearing them, so he just nodded politely.

The zigrâl took the time to compliment Dís on the birth of her second son, while Thráin informed his heir that he would sit with the representatives of the Iron Hills. In the last few months Thorin had satisfactorily taken charge of the negotiations with the clans from the Iron Hills - their cousin Dáin had made several interesting proposals aimed at improving the commercial relations between their dominions and Thorin had devoted a great amount of time to the development of the new agreements. As a consequence, it was natural that the King wished Thorin to sit with the Iron Hills dwarves; as his father liked to remind Thorin, entertaining the guests was part of the diplomatic effort.

Yet Thorin was almost surprised by the request. He had been thinking about how Master Baggins would behave toward him during dinner and how he should have responded to it - in other words, Thorin had taken for granted that Master Baggins would sit at by side at the King’s table.

So he had hardened himself against the melekûn.

He had wondered about how he could undo the damage done during the Kataühybîr and reassert his dignity as prince in spite of the halfling’s inopportune manners. He had decided to be civil but detached and to keep their exchanges to small-talk. Thorin had been so focused on his resolve that when he understood that the melekûn would not sit close to him, he felt disappointed rather than relieved.

Thorin saw Frerin moving toward Master Baggins and was almost tempted to stop in his tracks, but the forty and more guests were swarming the antechamber and he had to tear his eyes from the melekûn’s head, barely visible among so many Khazâd. He led the representatives of the Iron Hills toward one end of the table, while the King sat at the other end with Tharkûn at his side. Dís had been given the seat closer to the Master of the Engineers’ Guild, while Heptifili sat right in front of her. Even Dwalin was there with a bunch of older warriors, while courtiers, their wives and children made up the rest of the party.

Master Baggins, Thorin noticed, was sitting at Frerin’s side. They were too far for Thorin to worry about the possibility that the melekûn might address him, but not so far as to prevent the prince from observing the delighted expression on Master Baggins’ face. It was impossible to decide if such glee had been put there by the sight of the food served or by Frerin’s words - in any case, his younger brother seemed set on doing his best to keep Master Baggins well-entertained during dinner.

As for Thorin, he spent most of his time at the table talking with Master Nalmek, who led the delegation from the Iron Hills. The prince ate and drank his share, but he would not have been able to say what food had been served that night nor if he had appreciated it. Almost at the end of the dinner, Master Nalmek asked about the halfling - no one from the Iron Hills had been at the Kataühybîr, but the news had travelled fast.

“Who is he?” Master Nalmek asked, without bothering to hide his curiosity about the unexpected guest. After all the Iron Hills were no closer to the Shire than Erebor was, and halflings were as much of a novelty there as in the Lonely Mountain. “I heard that you know him quite well, Your Highness.”

“He was our host in the Shire,” Thorin replied, trying not to frown.

“Aye, aye,” Master Nalmek nodded. “Is he related to the Shire’s royal family?”

“There’s no king in the Shire,” the prince explained. “They have no ruler except a mayor as some cities of men have. And there’s another...they call him _Thain_ and if the Shire went to war he would be the one leading them. But the halflings are jealous of their peace and they do not care for the lands beyond their borders, so the Thain is but a benevolent chief who solves their small quarrels.”

“And Master Baggins is the mayor or this other chief?” Master Nalmek asked.

“Neither of them,” Thorin admitted, “but Master Baggins belongs to the Shire upper-class.”

“Does he?” the dwarf commented lazily, looking quite unconvinced by Thorin’s words.

Master Nalmek pointedly observed the melekûn, and the supercilious look on his face made Thorin even more aware of Master Baggins’ flaws as a guest at the King’s table. The halfling was dressed in too bright clothes and wore no jewellery as proof of his wealth; his manners were too friendly, yet they lacked that measure of boldness which would  suit a dwarf; his voice was too high-pitched and he was untimely polite. He could not understand the jokes flying over the table, nor did he know anything about table manners - he wanted to eat all his food with fork and knife even when some of the dishes were obviously destined to be eaten with bare hands.

If Master Baggins looked out of place in Thorin’s eyes, who had learnt to appreciate him despite his faults, what impression could he produce on the others?

“It was very generous of the King to invite the halfling to stay in Erebor,” Master Nalmek said, breaking the silence. “But I suppose that the halfling could not have found a better advocate than you, Your Highness.”

“He didn’t come here on my request,” Thorin replied, quite coldly. “It was Tharkûn who asked the King to accept Master Baggins as a guest and it was the King’s wish to do so.”

“A most peculiar guest indeed,” the other dwarf commented. “A common halfling dining at the King’s table is no ordinary sight. Everyone is wondering who this creature is and what his purpose here is. I suppose the King felt that such hospitality was due and you must have been pleased to see your acquaintance from the Shire again after...”

“What the King thought is not for me to say,” the prince cut Master Nalmek’s speech short. “As for myself, I am convinced that the clamour about the halfling will die soon.”

He was glad when his father announced that he would retire to his quarters - it was the signal that the royal family would not entertain guests after dinner and that they were all dismissed. This would spare Thorin the tedium of dealing further with Master Nalmek and his questions about the halfling - it was even worse than when he had just come back from the Shire!

When Master Baggins had appeared at the zigrâl’s side during the Kataühybîr, Thráin had asked his son’s opinion on the matter. Yet, it had been clear that the King had thought Thorin bound to repay Master Baggins’ hospitality. The melekûn had been invited to stay in Erebor as long as he wished, though the King had not dwelt on the other request - that Master Baggins might be permitted to learn more about Khazâd and their culture, from their language to their customs. It was not the sort of request Thráin would ponder lightly and Thorin was sure that he would hear more from his father on the subject. But when he had been asked for his judgement, Thorin had only replied that the melekûn had been the kindest host to him, Balin, and Dwalin.

How could he have done differently?

Tharkûn had chosen well his time. During the Kataühybîr the King could not postpone any decision. Khazâd came to the Kataühybîr to have answers and would not leave without them. Even if Tharkûn was not a Khuzd, he had a right to be listened to and to receive his answer like anyone else, thus he had cornered the King into accepting or refusing hospitality for the melekûn on the spot. Tharkûn had played his cards with a careful hand - he had probably guessed that on another occasion Master Baggins would not have been bestowed the honour of being the King’s guest, with all the advantages such a title implied. Thráin would not have denied Master Baggins a free pass to Erebor, but he would not have played host for such an apparently insignificant creature.

The fact that Thráin had left the melekûn in Frerin’s care was proof enough of his opinion on the matter: Master Baggins might be entertained and even charmed by his younger and more eccentric son, but the halfling would not sit at his heir’s side, despite the fact that Thorin had more right to Master Baggins’ company than any other Khuzd in Erebor.

Yet during the Kataühybîr the King had wisely chosen to give in to Tharkûn’s request. Opposing the zigrâl would have only increased the general curiosity about the halfling and Master Baggins’ first steps in the great hall had already caused rumour enough. If Tharkûn’s request had been made privately, Thorin might have shared with his father his worries about how the melekûn would embarrass himself among Khazâd; Master Baggins might have been welcomed as a guest of some lesser family of the Kingdom and his presence might have been made less conspicuous. But now the melekûn was the King’s own guest and his behaviour would reflect on Thorin.

On the way out from the dinner hall, Thorin took care to keep his distance from Master Baggins. He saw the melekûn glance in his direction, but Balin stepped in to lead Master Baggins to his rooms in the North wing on the third level, quite close to Thorin’s own.

Not far from the King’s quarters, the North wing was not one of the fairest area on the third level, which was completely reserved for the members of the royal family, their friends and guests. It was older and colder than other lodgings on the same level, but Thorin liked it enough since he had been mostly raised in those quarters and he had shaped them in his own taste. The rooms there had the sturdy, slightly intimidating look which Thorin preferred; the decorations in silver, gold, and gems were sombre rather than frivolous. On the other hand they had the best facilities one could hope for and great fireplaces in every room to keep the cold seeping in that side of the Mountain at bay.

The prince wondered if Balin had chosen Master Baggins’ rooms in the belief that the melekûn would be more comfortable in the proximity of Thorin’s quarters. It annoyed Thorin, but he could see that it was the most sensible choice and Master Baggins could not be lodged elsewhere.  

While the other guests dispersed, Thráin and his sons retired to the King’s own room. Hepti left them to check on his sons, who had been left in the care of their cousin Glóin’s wife; while Thorin approached his father and told him that he would join them later. Thráin nodded distractedly and Thorin marched straight toward the North wing.     
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  _Abanel_ : stone of all stones  
>  _Rukhskhai_ : warg  
>  _Zigrâl_ : wizard  
>  _Zundushûn_ : bird-man


	7. A (Quite Not) Ordinary Dwarf

When Thorin opened the door to Master Baggins’ rooms he found the melekûn on his knees before the grate of the fireplace, clumsily trying to revive the fire with the poker. Thorin had not bothered to be quiet, and Master Baggins gasped in surprise at the sound of the prince’s boots - the melekûn almost managed to hurt himself with the poker in his haste to leap to his feet.

In two strides Thorin was at the melekûn’s side. He grabbed the poker and put it back in its holder, then pulled at the right lever to activate the mechanical bellow hidden in the fireplace. The flames immediately burnt higher and brighter, its light falling on Master Baggins’ surprised face like liquid gold.

“Oh-oh,” the melekûn said, for once at a loss for words.

Master Baggins had gotten rid of that awful green waistcoat embroidered with golden flowers and was now in his shirt. The look on his face seemed one of bemusement and yet also pleasure at Thorin’s appearance in his chambers, but the impression lasted no more than a few moments before the melekûn forced his rosy features into a sterner expression, as if he had just remembered some fault on Thorin’s part. 

“I believe you haven’t knocked,” Master Baggins pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What are you doing here?” Thorin asked briskly, biting down the temptation to smile at the hardly menacing frown on Master Baggins’ face - and the melekûn tried to frown even more at Thorin’s tone.

“These are my rooms,” he replied, but he suddenly appeared uncertain and let his hands fall down. “Aren’t they?” he asked, peering up at Thorin.

“What are you doing here _in Erebor_.”

“Oh, well, I was under the impression that you were there in your ridiculously big hall to hear Gandalf. Speaking of it, were all those bridges really necessary? I don’t mean the bridges themselves, but what’s beneath them - it does look like one could fall for _weeks_ ,” he mused, stroking his hands up and down his arms.

“Who is this Gandalf, for Mahal’s sake?”

“Who is he?” the melekûn repeated, blinking. “Tall fellow, long beard, shabby clothes...”

“You mean Tharkûn,” Thorin interrupted him.

“Oh, yes. I was surprised the first time I heard him called so, but he told me that’s how he’s known in the East and that dwarves chose such a name for him,” Bilbo admitted. “Gandalf is an old friend; he was my mother’s friend before mine and he used to visit Bag End from time to time. He and my mother were quite close - her Tookish side, many would say, and he got along with my father well enough. I remember the first time I saw him, lighting fireworks...I was but a fauntling then, you know; still he was kind to me and we had the most exciting times when he came to Bag End. He has taught me many things about the world and brought me books and maps.”

“You never spoke about him,” Thorin pointed out, feeling annoyed and slightly offended - he had never suspected that the melekûn might be somehow related to a zigrâl. Was not Master Baggins supposed to have led the quietest life, far from eccentric and dangerous characters like Tharkûn?

“Well, it had been a while since Gandalf’s last visit and it didn’t occur to me that you might know him as well,” the melekûn explained, shrugging. “Besides, you never asked.”

“How could I have asked anything when I had no idea before today?” Thorin retorted.

“Why does it bother you so much?” Master Baggins inquired.

He sat on the nearest armchair with his hands in his lap and his hairy feet barely touching the fur carpet before the fireplace. Tilting his head, the melekûn took a long look at Thorin, who made a point of remaining perfectly still under such an examination.

“Oh, Thorin, I’ve seen so many things on the road!” Master Baggins suddenly exclaimed, as if he could no longer keep his feelings to himself. His cheeks glowed brighter and he looked at Thorin seeking his sympathy. “The world is far richer and more dangerous than I thought. I’ve seen waters white and foamy as boiling milk fall down from green rocks jutting up in the sky like old rotten teeth; I’ve seen a moon red as a May strawberry rise over the highest, darkest firs while the wolves howled and hunted; I’ve seen the Misty Mountains show their faces like ghosts of old kings, wrapped in translucent bandages. I’ve seen so many things that my heart and my eyes almost hurt, and I fear I don’t have words enough to capture them on paper - I’ve seen so many things and yet they have increased my thirst rather than quenched it.”

Thorin said nothing. Now that Master Baggins was before him, the dwarf was surprised at how easily he could recognise his quirks and expressions, and stunned at the warmth they kindled in his chest. Thorin would have never thought he had missed the melekûn but for these moments when he found himself almost too pleased to look upon Master Baggins and hear his fervent words. He was tempted to take a seat and rest by the fireplace listening to the melekûn’s accounts. He felt the need to soothe that vague sense of having been tricked by Tharkûn, who had stolen the melekûn from his peaceful home and swept him off to the road.

“Gandalf came to me months ago and proposed an adventure,” the melekûn told him. “He had done it before, twice or thrice, but it had been in jest then - as if he had known that I would not have gone anywhere. This time it was different - Gandalf expected me to say yes in the end. It took me a night to decide, but the following morning I packed a few things - I don’t know how I managed to forget my handkerchiefs though!” Master Baggins complained, looking as if the absence of handkerchiefs in his pockets had plagued him more than anything else he had met on the road. “We’ve been journeying since. We stopped at Rivendell, where I was introduced to Lord Elrond. And many people we met on our path, some kind and some dishonest, some brave and some sly. Gandalf protected me and for a while we travelled with a noble elf, Glorfindel, who serves Lord Elrond. Later we stayed in the house of Master Beorn; I guess you would have found me thin and famished after that terrible crossing over the Mountains, had it not been for Master Beorn’s honey cakes and yellow butter.”

And in truth, Thorin noticed, the melekûn did look thinner and more battered. The road had taken its toll and Master Baggins’ body lacked some of its plumpness. Yet he did not have a sick look to him and it could be hoped that some rest and good food would soon restore the melekûn’s health. Thorin suddenly realised that Master Baggins’ dietary habits had probably suffered far more than the sturdy leather-like soles of his feet. The prince found himself worrying about it - he should have taken care that more food was placed before Master Baggins at dinner and that the dishes could meet the melekûn’s taste and appetite. He barely managed to fight off the temptation of interrupting the melekûn’s account to inquire about it.

Thorin also observed that Master Baggins’ skin was slightly ruddier than he remembered, darkened by the sun and chafed by the winds. He knew that the melekûn sported freckles on his nose, cheeks, and forearms - though he could not see them standing by the fireplace while Master Baggins sat some feet from him. He could guess that new freckles had bloomed under the sun. Still, the melekûn’s skin under the hem of his shirt was probably as fair as ever...

“Then we went through the Greenwood,” Master Baggins said, apparently unaware that Thorin’s thoughts had drifted. “But I did not see the halls of the Woodland King. He sent elves to escort us to the other side of the forest, but no more than that. And while I laughed and sang in Elrond’s house, these elves made me shy and I learnt little to nothing about their ways and thoughts, though they travelled with us for days. They left us as soon as we were out of the forest, but we walked with a dwarf for the last part of our journey - a Master Nori who was returning to Erebor and seemed really nice, but disappeared as soon as we arrived in Dale. There we spent the night, and then...Erebor.” The melekûn stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts and words for the final act. His gaze, which had been slightly unfocused as if wandering through the memories of the journey rather than in the room, was fixed on Thorin. “Erebor was so beautiful in your words that I wanted to see it with my own eyes.”

Thorin’s heart skipped a beat, and he grunted to hide how his pride and love for Erebor were touched by the melekûn’s curiosity. He could not let Master Baggins’ fine words distract him from the inopportunity of his presence in Erebor, he could not be led astray from how Tharkûn had forced his father’s hand and...

“Tharkûn was the one who suggested that I should be sent to the Shire to refine my diplomatic abilities,” Thorin winced, sensing some path in the zigrâl’s decisions.

“Oh, that’s a very strange coincidence!” Master Baggins exclaimed. He bit his lower lip. “I mean, I was surprised enough when I understood that he knew you and your family quite well - he told me so when he came to Bag End. But now that I think about it, he was also the one who encouraged me to play host for the dwarves who would arrive in Spring. He said that it was the Thain’s wish and that I would profit from your presence in Bag End - you know, meeting new people and learning new customs...but I see that he might have been the very one suggesting the whole idea to the Thain.”   

“And he proposed you an adventure with the intention of leading you to Erebor,” Thorin added.

“Well, in truth we talked about journeying as far as Erebor when he spoke to me of an adventure,” the melekûn admitted, though his face grew red and he seemed bothered by the topic. “But I didn’t know that we would really make it as far as this...”

“What was his purpose?” Thorin growled, more irritated by the moment.

He felt that he had been somehow deceived and his humiliation was sharpened by the memory of the Kataühybîr.

“His purpose?” Master Baggins repeated, shooting Thorin an annoyed look. “Considering the sort of manners you have even after your... _refinement_ journey, I fear to think what they were before it. You certainly were in sore need of that journey and your father seems to value Gandalf’s opinion. Gandalf must have thought I would be a good host - after all, he does know how _I_ treat my guests. On the other hand, he believed a journey would do me well. I don’t see why Erebor should be such a suspicious choice of destination. In fact it was only natural, since he’s your friend and mine as well, and I’m hardly a stranger to you.”

Thorin fell silent at that. He saw the melekûn wet his lips, before speaking again.

“Am I?”

“What?” Thorin asked though he knew.

“A stranger - you’ve been treating me like one,” Master Baggins accused. “I believe that I might have displeased you by coming here.”

“You’re my father’s guest,” Thorin spat, irritated. “And I didn’t speak against it, you know that.”

“Yet you did not speak _for_ it,” the melekûn reminded him. “I truly looked forward to visiting Erebor and seeing you again, Thorin. But now that I’m here, I think that it was a mistake to come at all.”

Such bitterness enflamed Master Baggins’ words that Thorin felt guilty. He took a couple of steps, then stopped and shook his head.

“I only wish to understand why you came here,” he said, trying to keep his voice even.

“Have I not answered that? I’m on a journey with Gandalf. I wished to see Erebor because _you_ spoke so highly of it and filled my head with dreams of this Mountain of yours. Did you tell me all those things about your home only because you thought I would never see it?”

Thorin could see that Bilbo was trembling - from rage, disappointment, or both.

“You said that you didn’t care about leaving the Shire,” he replied, accusingly.

“I said I was afraid to do it - and I am, still,” the melekûn added in a whisper. “But more than a year had passed since you asked me about it and I had time to think. When Gandalf came I was still uncertain, but I let myself be persuaded by him as well as by the memory of your words.”

“So it’s my fault,” Thorin commented and he immediately regretted it when he saw Bilbo’s eyes grow large with pained surprise.

“It really angers you that I’m here,” he said, too quietly for Thorin’s taste. “I thought that you would be glad to see me and that we would see each other from time to time during my stay. I didn’t mean to keep you from your duties and I’ve seen you on your throne...so don’t worry, Thorin - I know how high you stand among your people. I was truly naive when you were in the Shire and I tried to be your friend.” It was the first time the word _friend_ had ever been used between them and it upset Thorin that such a word had to be pronounced there and then, when it could not bring them any pleasure. “I knew you were a prince then, but now I understand why you behaved that way. You were not raised to talk and laugh with common creatures, and nothing I could offer you in my house - fire and food and kind words - could compare with the jewels you wear and people bowing at your passage.”

“It’s not that,” Thorin interrupted. “I’m grateful for the things you did for us and...”

“You use your gratitude as a coin to throw at me in the street,” Bilbo commented, slapping his knee. “This evening I have been wondering what I had done to deserve your contempt - oh, I’ve noticed; the way you looked away as if I wasn’t even sitting at the same table, how you avoided me as if by talking to me and acknowledging my presence you may have failed in the eyes of your kin. I did nothing and yet I did everything; I am here and you didn’t expect me. You told me you don’t like surprises and it was stupid of me to think you would make an exception for the hobbit in whose house you slept and ate.”

 _I looked at you and I wanted to talk with you at dinner_ , Thorin might have said. But he didn’t.

“You and Tharkûn appeared before my father unannounced. How do you think it made me look?” he asked instead.   

“Oh, so it’s your pride that’s problem! Look, I didn’t know it would be such an official occasion, nor did I think that it would matter so much...” the melekûn confessed, looking at his hands before raising again his eyes again on Thorin. “Wait - are you angry because I called you by name? Would you rather have me pretend I didn’t know you in the least?” Something probably passed on Thorin’s face, because Bilbo covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a gasp. “You would,” he concluded when he took away his hand.

“No, it’s not as you think,” Thorin denied, but his protest sounded feeble even to his own ears. In truth he had thought that it would have been simpler if it had been another melekûn and not Master Baggins or at least if Master Baggins had been more careful with his emotions. But when he had seen him in the great hall, Bilbo had been clearly delighted and his voice had trembled with joy - these feelings would not do. “It’s only that we have different manners and rules here, and you might find me different from the dwarf who was your guest. Here my duties...Mahal, what I mean is that you’re most welcome to stay as long as you wish, Master Baggins,” the dwarf declared, almost wishing that the melekûn would ask again to be called Bilbo. But it did not happen, and Thorin sighed. “It’s only that I don’t know what you expect from me.”

“I expected you and I to be friends again,” Bilbo answered flatly. “But now I expect Your Highness to leave my rooms and let me have a good night’s rest.”

“There’s no need for such formalities in the privacy of your rooms,” Thorin growled.

He knew that it had been the wrong thing to say when the melekûn slipped to his feet, stiff and slightly pale.

“I think I might be in danger of forgetting the way I should address you in public if I don’t keep to formalities when we’re alone, Your Highness,” he said without faltering.

Thorin wanted to apologise, but he did not recognise this desire since it was so rare for him. He knew that many of the things he had wanted to say had come out wrong and he did not like the way the melekûn was speaking to him. But Thorin mistook his anger at his own behaviour for anger at Master Baggins’. Furious, he turned on his heels and made for the door. He was on the verge of opening it when the melekûn spoke.

“I did not come here for you, if it’s what you think. I went on an adventure for myself, not because you told me to last year. I wasn’t... _following_ you, and I didn’t entertain any sillier notion than that of being a friend you would welcome in your home.”  

“I...” Thorin began, without knowing what he could say to that.

He almost turned back to look at the melekûn, but Master Baggins spared him the trouble.

“Please, I’m very tired.”

Thorin had no other choice but to leave.

 

*

 

Days passed, and Thorin was grateful for the previous arrangements that kept him outside Erebor for almost two weeks - the representatives from the Iron Hills had been promised a hunting trip and it was Thorin’s duty to accompany them. The hunting party left Erebor the day after Master Baggins’ arrival, sparing Thorin any further occasion to quarrel with the melekûn. He was not completely sure that the idea of leaving Master Baggins in Erebor, though in Tharkûn’s care, was a comforting one; still, he convinced himself that letting the matter rest would be for the best.

The prince regretted his words - he had acted impulsively that night. He should have been colder and more collected, rather than reacting like a far younger dwarfling.

It was this sort of impetuosity who had put Thorin in a false position with the melekûn in the first place. Following such an impulse he had told Master Baggins about his grandfather Thrór’s madness; that night he had opened his heart to a stranger living in another land and he was still not sure why he had done it. From that moment on, it had been as if he could not stop himself from sharing his thoughts with the melekûn - and what greediness had possessed him to wish the melekûn place the same trust in him! The return to Erebor had put an end to that anyway, it would not have had any consequence if Master Baggins hadn’t decided to appear at the Mountain’s doors.

The hunt was a welcome distraction. The cold crisp air of late Autumn and the marches through the forest reinvigorated Thorin; his efforts with the delegation from the Iron Hills were repaid when Master Nalmek agreed to the contract Balin had prepared; the thrill of the chase and the more informal atmosphere between fellow hunters made Thorin feel younger and bristling with energy. He was put in a good mood and his worries about Master Baggins lessened.

The evening of his return from the hunt, Thorin found himself in his sister’s sitting room listening to Frerin’s accounts of Master Baggins’ latest blunders.

“Mahal, I thought that Lady Grunil might even strangle him on the spot when he complimented her on the fair colour of her cheeks,” Frerin chuckled, half-sunk in the great armchair by the fireplace. “She obviously thought he was alluding to her sparse beard and how we can all see the skin of her ugly chin peeping through it.”

“ _Obviously_ for a Khuzd,” Hepti remarked from the bench near the wall where he had been sitting and smoking his pipe with great concentration. Tharkûn had brought him a pouch of an unusual pipeweed blend and Hepti had been tasting it for most of the evening. But, as usual with him, smoking sharpened his tongue and his spirit rather than lulling him into calmness. “More obviously for someone as vain and sly as Lady Grunil, since that would have been the sort of remark she would have used against another. But it was far from obvious for Master Baggins, who probably does not care for beards and certainly is not a Khuzd...in case you’ve all failed to notice.”

The _all_ Hepti had thrown into the conversation made Thorin frown. He had kept his thoughts to himself when Frerin had started to talk about the melekûn, but he was annoyed by the fact that his brother-in-law could consider him in league with Frerin. _He wasn’t_. He simply did not wish to discuss the melekûn with anyone, especially his younger brother. Besides, how could Thorin answer such tales? He had not been there to spot any redeeming quality in Master Baggins’ conduct - in truth it was a relief to have missed Lady Grunil’s murderous displeasure.

“How could I have failed to notice?” Frerin asked Hepti with a lazy smile. “The halfling has not taken a single step in Erebor without embarrassing himself and reminding us that he’s not a Khuzd.”

“I’d rather say that he has not taken a single step in Erebor without someone reminding him that he’s not a Khuzd,” Hepti replied, waving his pipe.  

“That’s not true!” the younger prince protested. “I am, in fact, the only one beside Balin who has really taken care of our little guest. I sit at his side when our father invites him to his table, I’ve shown him around the Mountain and I have even introduced him to outstanding characters such as Lady Grunil.”

“And you abuse his trust by mocking him,” Thorin commented in a humourless tone.

Frerin seemed surprised that he had talked, as if he had almost forgotten that Thorin was in the same room, sitting in a darker corner of the room and mostly silent. All the same, Frerin had the decency to look slightly ashamed at his brother’s dry reproach.

“I have nothing against the halfling,” he pointed out. “Actually I think he’s a nice little fellow. Quite useless and weird, but I don’t mind his company. In fact I find him very funny, as you may have guessed.”

Thorin bit his tongue and turned his head to fix his eyes on the fire.

“It’s the fact that you find him so funny which worries me,” Hepti commented.

“Oh, don’t be so haughty, Master Heptifili!” Frerin sighed. “I saw you smiling at his awful attempts to master Khuzdul, and you and my sister laughed heartily at my account of Master Baggins’ meeting with my tailors. You’ve not heard about it yet Thorin, but it’s really...”

Frerin was interrupted by Dís’s arrival in the room. She had already changed in a loose velvet dress and put away most of her jewels; she had also taken down her dark hair, leaving in place only her marital braids.

“At last they’re both sleeping,” she said to her husband, before sitting down at his side on the bench. “Fíli asked me again to meet the famous Master Baggins, but - _Mahal!_ \- the halfling is too embarrassing and I fear Fíli would be quite disappointed with him.”

If Frerin’s banter had annoyed Thorin, Dís’s words embittered him. He had almost made up his mind to speak in Master Baggins’ favour, but Hepti preceded him.

“I don’t know about that,” he murmured, glancing sideways at Dís. “Our son has more sense than you and your brothers since you think that Master Baggins deserves to be laughed at just because he doesn’t fit your idea of worthiness.”

“There we are again,” Frerin chuckled, winking at Dís. “My dear sister, your husband has taken it upon himself to defend Master Baggins’ honour. I think he’s going through one of his moods, when he complains about our manners and not even _Thorin the Perfect Khuzd_ escapes his reproaches.”

“Is it true, ghivashel?” Dís asked Hepti, pinching his wrist in an affectionate gesture. “You must admit that the halfling doesn’t know how to behave at the King’s court.”

“I admit that with all my heart,” her husband replied, “but let me sympathise with the poor melekûn. I understand his place better than others, since I deal with your family every day.”

“Listen, listen!” Frerin laughed. “He now begins with the tale of his misfortunes, he who married into the royal family of Erebor!”

“It was hard enough for me and I’m a Khuzd,” Hepti continued, ignoring Frerin’s hilarity. “I can only imagine what it must be like for him trying to be accepted and valued by your lot.”

“It’s also _your_ lot,” Dís replied, but Thorin could see that she had perfectly understood her husband’s words and she did not really believe what she had just said.

“I may be part of your family but...” Hepti shook his head. “You, the heirs of Durin, are made from a different stone. You, your brothers, your father, your cousins, even our Fíli - all filled to the brim with this ruthlessness of yours, crumbling hearts and feelings under your boots. You’re a greedy, proud, commanding lot,” the dwarf declared, looking from Dís to Thorin and Frerin, and then again at his wife. “Mahal help you if you were not kings and queens and princes!”

They had heard the same things over and over. Hepti would never speak in such terms to anyone else, but sometimes he took upon himself the task of scolding them like a bunch of mischievious dwarflings.

In truth, they were hardly impressed by his reproaches.

They would all give him the blank stare, without understanding what his speech was supposed to mean - _we’re Khazâd and heirs of Durin_ Thorin thought. The things Hepti said about them were true, but he failed to see what might be wrong with being proud and strong. They loved gold and gems as any Khuzd did and - though not cruel - understood the greater task they were called to and the sacrifices they had to make for Erebor’s sake. Therefore, when Hepti talked about them as if they were a pack of hard-hearted wildlings, their blood boiled with annoyance and pride for they felt that they belonged to a great lineage and an uncommon fate.

“Sometimes I wonder if you married me just to get away with your reproaches without being accused of slander and betrayal,” Dís said, breaking the silence.

She hid the delight she had taken in her husband’s words behind the tender amusement of her voice.

“I married you because you tricked me into it,” Hepti answered, with the gentlest tug at Dís’s beard.

Thorin recognised the signs of disappointment on Hepti’s face - again, he had hoped to impress them with his words, but instead found them pleased with their flaws rather than ashamed of them. Dís kissed her husband on the mouth and on his bearded cheek, and Hepti’s mood softened.

“I see that I’m alone against you all,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to hers. “Do what you want with the poor melekûn then and mistreat him as much as you wish.”

“Don’t blame us, Hepti,” Frerin replied. “Your wife would have defeated you even by herself. And we don’t mean to crush Master Baggins under our boots. Do we, nadad?” he asked, glancing at Thorin.

“Certainly not,” Thorin answered, feeling his cheeks growing slightly warmer - he was grateful that he was sitting in the shadows and no one could see it. “But Hepti is right.”

“Am I?” the other dwarf sighed from the bench and Dís’s strong arms.

“Master Baggins cannot help - he’s not one of us,” Thorin said, and the coldness in his voice surprised even him.

“He’s very bizarre, you know,” Frerin mused, patting distractedly the armrest. “He dresses, eats, and talks following his own tastes and customs, and he has done little or nothing to change them. When I suggested to him that he might find it more pleasurable to wear boots, he looked at me as if I had just offended his feelings - Mahal, I was just sick of seeing his naked feet all the time!”

“On the other hand he seems very interested in us Khazâd,” Dís pointed out. “He wants to know about our food and our traditions, and what we call this and that. He’s particularly eager to learn Khuzdul and always tries to imitate the sounds of our language. He confessed that he’s a sort of scholar when it comes to languages. He even told me something in the Elves’ tongue, but I didn’t understand a single word. At least someone will be happy with Thranduil’s next visit.”

Thorin frowned at the idea - he had never understood the melekûn’s fascination with the Elves, and he disapproved of it. He wondered if there was any chance that Master Baggins might choose to spend some time in the Woodland Realm. Thranduil was well-known for not being fond of unexpected guests, but he would probably accept the halfling in his realm as long as Tharkûn granted for him. The thought that the melekûn might leave so soon disturbed Thorin - _don’t be foolish_ he admonished himself.

“I’d like to hear Thranduil’s opinion on Master Baggins’ Sindarin,” Frerin commented. “I mean, it may be good since his Khuzdul is so bad. In truth, at first he seemed convinced that he would be thrown in a pit for trying to learn Khuzdul...I wonder who could have given him such an idea,” the prince muttered, looking pointedly at Thorin.

“Have you given him the speech about how Khuzdul should be protected and kept secret?” Dís asked Thorin, looking half-amused and half-exasperated.

“Given the halfling’s attempts, Thorin might be right,” Frerin said. “No one should murder our dear language as Master Baggins does.”

“Come on, no one speaks Khuzdul all the time anymore,” Hepti sighed. “It may have been our first language in the past, but we should face the truth. We use Westron most of the time, and fewer and fewer Khazâd use Khuzdul in their daily life. We have been so focused on preserving it in its original form and protecting it from any influence that it has grown rigid and fragile. It’s perfect for battles and orders, for rites and old tales...but it doesn’t have words for the present.”

“What should we have done? Given it to men and elves, and let them change our language from the inside?” Thorin replied, shaking his head. “Khuzdul expresses our hearts better than any other language. It suits our needs, as long as our needs are those of our fathers and grandfathers, as it should be.”

“You’re obsessed with traditions,” Dís accused him. “Fíli is learning Khuzdul, and we’ll teach Kíli as well, but it’s not speaking Khuzdul every single day that will turn them into Khazâd.”

“The language we speak shapes us,” Thorin insisted, growing more and more involved in the topic.

“And the way we live shapes it in turn,” Hepti retorted. “But you wouldn’t allow that for Khuzdul.”

“Would you teach it to anyone then? Going around revealing the words we use for our beloved and our dead to men, elves, and halflings alike?” Thorin asked with contempt.

“No, but if Master Baggins asks to be taught something of our language, we should not oppose his wish,” Hepti replied calmly.

“Ghivashel...” Dís smiled and nudged her husband with her elbow. “You’re mistaking the halfling for a stray sheep. We’re not going to eat him for dinner, you know.”

“And he wouldn’t be able to learn,” Frerin added. “I mean, he’s really awful at it. He doesn’t even know how to bring the right sounds out of his mouth. I thought he would choke on some words and he sounds like a cat with a cold trying to sing his love to an elk. He doesn’t understand a single thing - he listens with such a focused expression on his smooth face, and then he doesn’t recognise the simplest words.”

“It’s true,” Dís admitted. “I heard him rehearsing some sort of greeting he was saving for adad. I had to convince him that it wasn’t a good idea to use it in public - I don’t know what father would have done with a halfling complimenting him on the colour of his stones.”

Frerin broke into a laugh at the idea and even Hepti sniggered behind his beard. Only Thorin was not amused.

“You’re not helping him,” Thorin accused his younger brother.

“He’s past any help,” Frerin guffawed. “He cannot learn Khuzdul, that’s evident.”

“Not with you as his teacher,” Thorin replied, frowning.

“I’m as good a teacher as any other Khuzd!” his younger brother exclaimed. “Dís? Hepti? Come on, I’m perfectly able to teach my own language to some halfling. It’s not my fault he’s so thick-headed.”

“He’s not,” Thorin spat, before Dís or Hepti could even open their mouth. “He’s clever,” he murmured, but no one seemed to hear him say that and he was somehow relieved.

He did not know at first why he felt so infuriated by Frerin’s insinuation about the melekûn’s wits, had he not kept his mouth closed when Frerin had been criticising the way Master Baggins dressed and walked? But this was different - Bilbo was quick of mind and Thorin felt that he could not accept hearing him described as dull and obtuse.

“Well, he _does_ seem slow and silly,” Frerin repeated.

“You couldn’t teach him anything,” Thorin growled in response. “Your Khuzdul is passable, but you understand nothing of its rules. We both know that you are unable to sustain an entire conversation in Khuzdul, and that you still ask Balin to write your official letters because you are too slow with runes.”

Frerin leapt to his feet, his cheeks glowing red. Thorin made to stand up, but Dís snapped at them both.

“You stupid dwarflings,” she barked. “What has got into you, Thorin? You’ve always said that the halfling would never be able to learn our language and now you’re annoyed because Frerin confirms your idea? And we _do_ know that your Khuzdul is a little raw Frerin, so stop looking surprised and hurt as if you had ever really cared for Balin’s lessons.”

Frerin laughed and sat again on his armchair, all traces of irritation fading from his face.

“Poor Balin, I guess I was the one who turned his beard white,” he said, smiling at the memories of the troubles he had caused as a dwarfling. “But I stand by my words - no one could teach the halfling to speak Khuzdul. Not even you brother, with your superior knowledge of all things concerning Khazâd,” he added mockingly.

Thorin’s jaw was clenched and he saw Frerin’s green eyes flicker in the firelight, daring him.  

“Weren’t we discussing the fact that Master Baggins _shouldn’t_ learn Khuzdul a moment ago?” Hepti asked sardonically.

“And you convinced us of the opportunity of changing our minds,” Dís answered. “Didn’t he, Thorin?”

There was some expectancy in Dís’s voice, as if she had suddenly seen an opportunity for amusement and meant to grab it. But Thorin did not look at her, he held Frerin’s gaze and reviewed in his mind the many reasons why he should not have played such a game.

“You told us first of Master Baggins’ flaws,” Frerin said, “and that even the Westron spoken in the Shire is different from that we use here in the East. _Feebler and sweeter_ you said and many times you repeated to us that Khuzdul is not for anyone. Now this little fellow wants to learn Khuzdul and I have obliged him since he asks so prettily.”

Thorin stiffened, and he almost heard the melekûn’s voice praying Frerin to teach him and...

“You’ve never given much thought to what being a Khuzd means. You couldn’t teach our customs any more than you could teach Khuzdul.”

“Could _you_?” Frerin asked quickly. “You are always throwing in anyone’s face how flawless a Khuzd you are. With your perfect Khuzdul and your respect for traditions. You’re always so impeccable, as if we should see Durin reborn in you - here comes Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór, who could never be blamed or reproached since he’s nothing but the ideal Khuzd, the ideal warrior, the ideal King. Mahal, you scare me at times,” Frerin laughed, though Thorin guessed that he had not spoken in jest. “Since _you_ know what being a Khuzd means, teach it to Master Baggins.”

“You must be joking,” Thorin said flatly.

“No, I’m _daring_ you,” Frerin shook his head. “Let’s have a bet about it.”

“This is a bad idea,” Hepti protested, while Dís observed Thorin with a sharp smile.

“In a few weeks’ time there will be the _Mahalmerag_ dance. If by then the halfling has learnt how to behave among Khazâd and doesn’t embarrass himself further in adad’s presence and before the whole court, I won’t try to avoid any duty you’ll throw my way for a year,” Frerin proposed. “But if Master Baggins is the laughing stock of the feast, you’ll relieve me of any duty for a year.”

Thorin said nothing. The idea of forcing Frerin to attend to his duties seemed alluring enough, but he was also perplexed and worried by the fact that the opportunity to take upon himself the melekûn’s education held its own particular appeal. Part of him longed to mend the hurt his last visit to Master Baggins’ rooms had caused; the fact that Thorin did not fully recognise this desire did not mean that he was less inclined to act upon it. Actually, the more he thought about the bet, the more the prospect suited him - he was equipping himself with the perfect alibi to seek Bilbo’s company once more and he remained wilfully blind to this deeper wish.

“Thorin, for Mahal’s sake, you’re not really thinking of accepting!” Hepti exclaimed, astonished.

“What are the terms?” Thorin asked calmly.

Frerin smiled broadly, while Hepti groaned and Dís hushed him.         

“You’ll have to teach Master Baggins how to behave. I won’t interfere with it, but you’re going to deal with him without any help - you don’t get to send him to Balin or any other master. All the decisions about his education are yours, but he must be able to greet and compliment adad in Khuzdul before the whole court. I don’t expect you to turn him into a dwarf, but he must not embarrass himself - he must gain the approval of the nobles and the guests who will be present at the Mahalmerag,” Frerin concluded.

“And who will judge his progresses?” Thorin inquired, frowning.

“I think it will be quite evident whether Master Baggins is a success or a disaster,” Dís intervened. “But I will keep an eye on this bet of yours, since you can rely on my judgement.”

The princes nodded, both knowing that Dís would be a fair but inflexible judge for their bet.

“You’re going to regret it,” Hepti admonished Thorin. “Do you think it’s honourable on your part? You will offer him your friendly help and he’ll think you kind, while all the time you and your siblings will be spying on him to see him fail or succeed in pleasing your standards.”

“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport,” his wife cut in. “Hasn’t Master Baggins been asking to be educated in Khazâd culture? Here it’s an opportunity for him to learn as much as it pleases him, and he will be no worse for this bet.”

Thorin’s conscience, which had been prickled by his brother-in-law’s words, rested more easily at Dís’s comment. Thorin was not as fond of bets as Frerin was, but he could hardly refrain from the desire of proving himself - winning the bet would teach his younger brother a lesson and Master Baggins would have his chance to learn more about Erebor and its culture. Hadn’t Tharkûn asked exactly this - that the melekûn might receive an education on Khazâd culture? And if Thorin complied with Tharkûn’s request, thus honouring both their friendship with the zigrâl and their debt for Master Baggins’ hospitality, he would be doing his duty.

Moreover, it was one thing for Thorin to acknowledge the melekûn’s faults and quite another to hear his name blemished by Frerin’s jesting. He felt a strange need to prove Master Baggins’ worth as pupil as well as his own as teacher. He wanted to allow Bilbo’s qualities to shine bright and untarnished in the eyes of the whole court, as they did in his eyes. He wished, in other words, to see Bilbo admired and respected, and thus feel that his peculiar liking for Master Baggins was not unreasonable.

With his help, Master Baggins would make quick progress. It would do him good and make his stay in Erebor more pleasurable, since it would allow him to become accepted and even appreciated among Khazâd, rather than laughed at.    

“Thorin please, reconsider this,” Hepti insisted, before turning sharply to Dís. “I don’t like it,” he said, with unusual gloominess.

“Oh, it will be something to look forward to for the Mahalmerag,” she answered, shrugging.

“Thorin?” Hepti called again, impatiently.

“Brother?” Frerin said instead, raising his brow. He left his armchair to stand before the fireplace, with his right hand raised toward his older brother. Thorin still sat in his dark corner without speaking. He knew that they were all watching him, waiting for his answer. “Do we have a deal?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  _Ghivashel_ : treasure of all treasures  
>  _Mahalmerag_ : Yule feast, inspired to Dwarrow Scholar’s calendar


	8. Just You Wait, Thorin Son of Thráin

“Do you think I could come with you?” Bilbo asked, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt.

Gandalf did not look particularly surprised at his question, yet he did not answer immediately. He chewed the mouthpiece of his pipe, while he studied the narrow window looking upon the Northern slopes.

“My dear Bilbo, you’ve been here for barely two weeks,” the wizard said at last, turning to the hobbit. “I thought that you wanted to spend the Winter in Erebor,” he added quietly, taking his seat in front of the hobbit.

Bilbo squirmed uneasily in the great armchair, half-closing his eyes.

He saw the great hall where the King under the Mountain sat on his throne and the myriad of lights burning upon gold and gems, the chasm beneath the stone bridge and Thorin son of Thráin on the other side of it. Bilbo had felt so shy then, humbled by the ferocious splendour of Erebor’s halls. It was so different from the comfortable sights offered in the Shire - from the friendly and accessible beauty of the smials smelling of fresh bread, of the small gardens blooming with pale roses and golden daffodils, of the tender grass growing in the meadows. Not even Rivendell, beautiful as in a dream, had prepared Bilbo for Erebor.

Erebor possessed an ostentatious beauty, skilfully carved beam after beam, wall after wall, to impress the visitor. Everything spoke of the dwarves’ pride and riches; their glorious and tragic history was engraved on every available surface and their runes ran for miles to narrate their victories and conquests. And what chaos of dwarves! Erebor was a beehive, constantly buzzing with activity - smoke, flames, thunders came from the mines buried in the roots of the Mountain itself; the clang of axes, boots, and belts followed the dwarves wherever they went - they were so loud that Bilbo spent the first days with a lingering headache. There was always something being built or repaired, sold or bought, carried out according to the King’s orders.

“I thought the same,” Bilbo admitted with a soft sigh, “but things are not what I expected them to be.”

At first Bilbo had not even been able to say if he liked Erebor or not.

It had taken him a while to feel less uncomfortable with the monstrous proportions of the place, with its high ceiling and apparently endless corridors without any windows. Erebor had seemed too dark at first, but Bilbo had slowly learnt to recognise the rich undertones of red, green, blue, and to appreciate the stark contrast created by the gleaming metal and the burning lamps rather than longing for the sweeter light of the Shire. It was a darker world, but many colours shimmered among the shadows. Even his rooms - so severe and cold they had appeared at first! - were rich in texture and decoration, as well as full of ingenious comforts like hot water coming from pipes in the bathroom.

Bilbo still felt at ill ease if Gandalf was not in his company, but his nervousness promised to fade in time and he had already started to appreciate the different taste which had shaped Erebor.

Yet this was hardly the point.

“I told you before that you shouldn’t expect too much from dwarves at first,” Gandalf replied, as if he had just read Bilbo’s troubled mind. “They can be very suspicious toward what they don’t know - but, well, we could say the same for hobbits. Yet the dwarves here certainly seem very rude to you, despite the fact that you had three of them living in Bag End for a while - you must have learnt something about their character then.”

“It seems to me that all I learnt then was a misunderstanding on my part,” Bilbo replied, shrugging.

“So you’d prefer to leave Erebor with me, though I took care that you could be accepted among the King’s guests?”

“I think I’d have been happier with simpler accommodation! I don’t believe that anyone in the King’s court, except for Balin and Dwalin, likes me at all. They are curious about me because I’m a hobbit, but they don’t really care about my opinions or my feelings,” Bilbo complained, wrinkling his nose. “When Thorin was in my house I thought him unbelievably arrogant, but now I see that he’s in good company here.”

“I saw Frerin talking with you at dinner.”

“Oh, Frerin isn’t bad,” the hobbit admitted, nodding. “Not cruel I think, and less stuffy than his siblings, but I’m not so blind to ignore the fact that he laughs at me behind my back with all the others. His sister is even worse. She’s a great lady whose opinion can influence a whole court, that much I can see, but I cannot really like her. She reminds me too much of her older brother...she looks at me with the same contempt.”

And then there was Thorin himself.

Thorin who had become a complete stranger over the year and a half from their time in the Shire. It was true that they had never promised to remain in touch. The only letters Bilbo had received from Erebor had been Balin’s - very generic letters to thank him again for his hospitality, but carrying no news about Thorin. Nor had Bilbo ever thought to write to the prince - it had seemed a presumptuous, intrusive thing to do.  

They had parted on far better terms than those on which their acquaintance had begun, but Bilbo had to admit that his relationship with Thorin was mostly unfathomable. They had learnt to get along quite well, all considering; Bilbo had found the prince’s company unexpectedly pleasant and stimulating, and he had been under the impression that Thorin could value his friendship. _There is hardly more than this between that dwarf and me_ , Bilbo repeated to himself, nurturing what he thought a most sensible point of view. The rest between him and Thorin was an apparently endless list of things they would never agree on - cultural differences and stubbornness and social status and race all tangled up to separate them.

Yes, there had been that one time when Bilbo had thought about kissing Thorin and maybe Thorin had thought about kissing him, yet it had not happened and that made all the difference.

“Thorin has always been the most obstinate and difficult of Thráin’s sons,” Gandalf commented, resorting again to that bad habit of his to guess Bilbo’s thoughts as if he had spoken them aloud.

“I don’t really care about prince Thorin,” Bilbo lied, growing a little annoyed when Gandalf looked as if he did not believe him at all. “I’m starting to think that he was right on this at least - that you had some purpose in choosing Bag End for their stay in the Shire and then offering me a chance to visit Erebor.”

“Oh, I _did_ have a purpose,” Gandalf admitted carelessly, “as I often do. But there’s no need to keep it secret if you want to know it. It’s very simple, and I thought you and Thorin would have figured it out by now. I must have underestimated the thickness of dwarves and hobbits.”

“I have no idea how I could have thought Thorin the most annoying creature I know,” Bilbo muttered with a long sigh.

Gandalf did not seem offended, he chuckled in his beard and waved his hand.

“Now, now, my dear Bilbo,” he said with a certain fondness. “You have to admit that you have your own pride and your own streak of stubbornness, otherwise you’d see things as clearly as I see them myself: you are the hobbit prince Thorin needs and he might be the dwarf for you.”

Bilbo blushed to the roots of his hair, and stared at Gandalf. 

“Now, you’re not playing matchmaker, are you?” the hobbit asked, not liking in the least how his voice had become a little throaty.

_That’s what comes from befriending wizards_ , Bilbo’s conscience said, speaking in Lobelia’s annoying voice. _You’re well contented in your smial, cooking and gardening, while he plots to throw a dwarf in your way for the sole purpose of seeing what will come out of it._

“I hadn’t thought of it in this light,” Gandalf commented, apparently unaware of Bilbo’s horror when the hobbit realised that he might have just encouraged the wizard in his folly. “I simply reckoned that Thorin had to grow out of his prejudices and that no one would serve him better than you in this task. I have come to think that there’s a darkness lingering above Thorin - I think that you already know what I’m talking about” the wizard murmured, watching Bilbo with his probing grey eyes. The hobbit gulped, not daring to nod lest he confirm that he knew about King Thrór’s madness and the treasure which had lured the dragon Smaug. “He needs friends at his side to face his future.”

“But why _me_?” Bilbo asked, showing his soft palms to the wizard. “I’m just a hobbit. I’m not a warrior, and I know nothing about kings and politics.”

“Because you’ve been that friend for me, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said amiably. It took Bilbo a moment to register what the wizard had just declared and even then it left him almost speechless. “Now I see Thorin struggling, and I thought that I could not do him a greater service than introducing him to you.”

“Oh, you should really tell him that,” Bilbo commented sarcastically. Then his mood softened and he looked at Gandalf with a bashful smile. “I am sorry if you hoped I might become his friend. I tried and I shall admit that I liked the idea, but he sits too high on his throne to befriend a hobbit.”

“I didn’t think I’d see the day the son of Belladonna Took would give up so easily,” Gandalf commented.

The mention of his mother made Bilbo stiffen. He tapped his thumbs on the armrest, shot a glance at the wizard, then shook his head.

“I’m sure it was my Tookish side that pulled me out of Bag End and pushed me onto the road. I wonder what possessed me to agree to this plan of yours - going on an adventure!” Bilbo huffed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, it was a marvellous idea that one: suffering rain and winds, sunburns and blisters, facing dangers at every turns - oh my, do you remember the _spiders_? - then being snubbed by dwarves! I won’t be surprised when no gentle-hobbit will speak to me upon my return to the Shire.”

“The pleasure you take in complaining about those things is greater than your displeasure in them,” Gandalf teased, making Bilbo frown even more.

“Anyway I’m not giving up anything,” the hobbit added, almost pouting. “It just..didn’t work out. I came here and he’s clearly not pleased with it. I cannot force him or any other dwarf to change his mind - as you’ve said, I’ve got my pride. They may think that I’m a little smiling fool, content enough with staring at their gems and bowing when they greet me, but even while I laugh and say _thank you_ , I see their condescension and how they deride me. I’ve no friend among them, except for Balin; in truth I’m not sure they are the sort of friends I’d like to make. Besides, Thorin may not be completely wrong. He’s a prince and I’ve realised that this Erebor of his is a grander thing than I imagined.”

“I disagree with both of you then,” Gandalf replied, “but it’s not my place to make you change your mind. I offered you an adventure, Bilbo Baggins, it would be quite wrong of me to refuse to listen to your request after you’ve followed me for months. I have business I must attend to and I won’t be back here before Yule. I think that you might enjoy your stay despite these first difficulties and that things might not be so dark after all, but obviously if you want to come with me, you can.”

Bilbo was glad to hear that. He still felt slightly distressed at the idea of what Gandalf had been planning behind his back, but he believed in the wizard’s good intentions and he decided to let the matter rest. He valued Gandalf’s friendship and confidence, and even if they saw things very differently about Erebor and its inhabitants, it was not worth quarrelling.

“I will return to my rooms then,” Gandalf said, standing up, “and I’ll leave you to your packing. We leave no later than tomorrow morning.”

“Oh - yes, yes,” Bilbo stuttered, trying to hide his surprise.

It was not altogether pleasant to know that they would be leaving so soon - it seemed a very sudden departure! - but Bilbo would not stay where he was not wanted, so he swallowed down his regrets about such a hasty change in the plans.

“What about me, Gandalf?” he asked though.

“ _About you_?” Gandalf repeated, distractedly.

“You said that I might need Thorin, but you didn’t say why,” Bilbo reminded him, despite the fact that he was fairly sure Gandalf had already understood his question.

The wizard, standing before the door, tipped his head and looked at the hobbit. His gaze softened.

“My dear Bilbo, you don’t even know how lonely you were,” he said, leaving Bilbo baffled and uneasy. But the hobbit did not have time to delve into his feelings, since Gandalf straightened his back and smiled at him with mysterious satisfaction. “I think you’ve a guest,” the wizard announced, opening the door.

On the threshold stood Thorin with his fist raised. When he realised that knocking was no longer required, he let his hand fall and schooled his surprised expression into his more familiar scowl. Bilbo, for his part, hoped he had maintained an air of utmost neutrality at the dwarf’s unexpected appearance.

“Tharkûn,” Thorin said in place of a greeting.

“Hello Thorin,” the wizard answered, a little too merrily. He was practically gloating, and Bilbo would have been tempted to laugh if it had not been for Thorin’s dark frown. “I was just leaving. Don’t leave anything behind, Bilbo,” the wizard added, before slipping past Thorin.

As soon as they were alone, Bilbo dropped his gaze to the floor. He heard the door being gently closed, then Thorin’s voice.

“What did he mean by that?” the prince asked without preamble.

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” Bilbo answered, trying to sound as unruffled as possible by the dwarf’s bluntness. Not that Thorin seemed willing to cooperate.

“You aren’t,” he commented in that commanding fashion of his which always managed to rile Bilbo up.

“I fear I have to contradict you on this point,” the hobbit replied, quite coldly. “I _can_ actually leave Erebor at my pleasure. I like to think myself a hobbit free to go wherever it pleases him, Your Highness.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Thorin conceded between his teeth. Then he seemed to remember something and forced his voice to a gentler tone. “I meant - I mean that it’s too early for you to leave. Do you...is it my fault?” the dwarf asked, observing Bilbo.

“Oh, not everyone dances around you!” the hobbit exclaimed, quite forgetting that Thorin’s coldness _had_ been a prominent reason for his decision to leave Erebor.

Bilbo was, in fact, distracted by the idea that he had never seen dwarves dancing. The prince would surely make an impressive partner in a dance, tall and broad as he was, and provided with an unexpected grace. What sight Thorin’s long hair would make, flowing in the dance, and glistening with scented oil and beads!

Bilbo caught himself just in time before growing too unfocused.

“I was making tea,” he said, gesturing Thorin toward the armchair. The dwarf looked taken aback by the sudden change in their conversation. He opened his mouth then closed it, and did not move from where he stood. Bilbo decided that he might as well take Thorin’s hesitation as a refusal to his unspoken invitation to join him for tea. “I’m sure Your Highness has more important things to do,” Bilbo scoffed. “Goodbye, then, I’ll try to remember to bow low enough should we meet again.”

And, on those words, the hobbit performed an over-exaggerated bow. He heard Thorin moving hastily in the room. When Bilbo tilted his head up, he found the prince had moved quite closer and was looking at him with something akin to distress.

“Please, don’t,” Thorin said, gesturing vaguely but quite not daring to touch him. “You don’t need to bow before me. I’ve never required it of you and nothing has changed.”

“Oh, that’s untrue,” Bilbo protested, straightening his back.

“You were making tea,” Thorin replied, instead of challenging Bilbo’s statement.

Then he sat on the armchair, never taking his eyes off Bilbo, as if he expected the hobbit to assail him at any moment. In truth Bilbo did not feel completely sure of his own peaceful intentions. He prepared the kettle and put it on the small stove his quarters were provided with - a pleasant surprise which had cheered him up when he had taken possession of his rooms. From the kitchens the hobbit had obtained several tea blends and infusions he had never heard of in the Shire, and he was still trying them out. He chose a strong-scented mixture and put it in the teapot. Meanwhile he kept his mouth well shut in proud silence, and he could have sworn he heard the sound of Thorin’s temper boiling more quickly than the water in the kettle.

Certainly Thorin was not used to being ignored. For a prince accustomed to instructing others to speak and shut up at his whim, bearing a silence he had not agreed to was probably a torture. Indeed Thorin shifted in the armchair, then sat still again, cleared his throat and frowned as if he could force the hobbit to speak by the sheer intensity of his glare.

“You’re making things difficult,” Thorin growled at last, looking quite defeated.

“Am I?” Bilbo asked, feigning innocence. “I wasn’t aware that you desired to make conversation, Your Highness. I fear that I have no topics which might interest you though.”

“I won’t stand such treatment,” the prince snapped, rising from the armchair with his back slightly hunched as if he was trying to contain his stature and rage as well.

“Then go, no one asked you to pay me a visit,” Bilbo reminded him sharply, letting the serene façade fall.

For a moment Thorin looked on the verge of leaving. Instead he blinked and moved toward the hobbit. Bilbo instinctively backed away, but Thorin took his right hand in his and pulled gently. It would have been ridiculous to fight off such a mild touch and Thorin was not even squeezing his fingers. He had such big hands compared to Bilbo’s, unexpectedly calloused for a prince - Thorin had told him once that he liked to work in the forges from time to time and that holding hammers, swords, axes, and reins had marked his hands very early in his life.

Confused by the soft rasping of Thorin’s skin against his smoother palm, Bilbo let the prince led him to the armchair.

“Sit down,” Thorin said and Bilbo obeyed out of surprise.

The dwarf released his hand with a distracted pat, took a look at Bilbo as if he wanted to make sure that the hobbit was not going to flee, then returned to the stove for the whistling kettle. Bilbo twisted his head to spy Thorin’s movements. The dwarf was clearly out of practice with kettles and teapots, but he managed it all the same. In a few moments, the tray with the silver teapots and cups was on the low table before the fireplace and Thorin sat on the other armchair, facing Bilbo.

“You don’t make tea every day, do you?” the hobbit murmured, trying not to smile at the thought of a more domesticated version of Thorin scuttling around in a kitchen.

“No, in fact I don’t. There’re servants for that,” the dwarf replied without any arrogance.

_This is how you live then_ , Bilbo thought, not without a hint of regret.

“Then let me pour it,” he offered. “I wouldn’t like for you to scorch your fingers.”

“You fussy thing,” Thorin said, making Bilbo’s heart flutter in disbelief at the fondness in his voice. “I am used to the fires in the forge. Do you think I would mind a drop of hot water?”

“For the carpet’s sake then,” the hobbit sighed. “And please, don’t thank me for my attempts at being gentle.”

“You scoff at _my_ attempts,” Thorin pointed out.

“You attempts are dreadful,” Bilbo replied and found himself smiling while he poured the tea.

“Last time I chose the wrong words and I spoke too hastily. If you had written to me about your arrival I wouldn’t have reacted so poorly, but you had to have it your own way or Tharkûn’s. Then you decided to take all the things I said the worst way possible. You’re so obstinate and...”

“I accept your apologies,” Bilbo interrupted the prince with an indolent smile.

Thorin stuttered on the words he had meant to say, then shut up and looked at the hobbit suspiciously. He did not seem entirely satisfied with the outcome and tried again to speak.

“I didn’t,” he began, then stopped. Thorin’s face cautiously lit up and his posture grew more casual. “So, you’ll stay.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What if I forbade you to leave?” Thorin asked teasingly, leaning forward and caressing his beard. Bilbo answered with a hard glance and gave a dissatisfied grunt. “What if I asked you to stay then?” the dwarf amended, tilting his head. Bilbo hummed noncommittally, then he took his cup and brought it to his mouth, fixing his eyes on the cup’s brim and thus escaping Thorin’s gaze. “Don’t use tea to evade my request,” the prince reproached him. “I know you make tea when you’re upset or thoughtful, and then you...”

“I don’t hide behind a cup,” Bilbo grumbled, forcing himself to lower it. “You asked me why I had come here. Now I should ask you why you want me to stay.”

“Fair enough,” Thorin conceded. He straightened up in the armchair. “I know it’s your desire to learn more about Khazâd and study our language. Let me teach you, then.”

Bilbo stared at the prince in surprise. He could accept that Thorin had regretted their quarrel, but it was harder to believe that the dwarf might turn into his teacher. Bilbo had not even thought of such a chance, but he could not deny the thrill of anticipation that ran through him - oh, he knew Thorin was greatly cultured in dwarf-lore and how deep his love for traditions and Khuzdul went!

Yet the hobbit stifled his own eagerness at the idea, and watched the prince critically.

“From accusing me of having visited Erebor with the sole purpose of displeasing you to offering me your knowledge and guidance...well, you must admit that it’s quite a leap even for someone as moody as you,” Bilbo pointed out, trying to sound thoroughly unimpressed by Thorin’s sudden change of heart.

“I’ll ignore the insult,” Thorin murmured grimly. “You know that I’ve been away for a few days...”

“Have you? That would explain why I haven’t felt the weight of your glare in days, trying to crush me to the ground,” Bilbo commented.

“...on a hunting trip,” the dwarf continued, though frowning and glaring with great liberality.

“Hunting for your good judgement, I suppose. You went away loathing the very sight of me and now you’re offering me exactly what you found so offensive only a couple of weeks ago. Were you visited by a dream? Or is it your father’s order? Who are you trying to please?” Bilbo asked, knowing that he was speaking just like Thorin.

“Myself,” the prince answered. “I want to please myself with your company and your interest in the customs of my people. I sang to you the merits of Khazâd and their achievements, now I have a chance to prove my words true and show you my father’s Kingdom, Erebor Mizimel, the jewel of all jewels.” He stopped for a moment, as if he did not know whether to say more or not. “It would please me to know that you’re not so uncomfortable in my house,” he added at last. “You don’t need to feel alone here.”

Bilbo did not like to be reminded again of the sort of solitude he had experienced in the Shire after his parents’ death. First Gandalf, then Thorin. The hobbit was hurt by the idea that he had worn his loneliness for everyone to see and judge him by it - pity was a cruelty to his cheerful nature, inclined as he was to make the best of the circumstances.

He refused to feel forlorn or unworthy. He did not want to be treated as if he had been abandoned; his parents had died and other hobbits had never really been there for him. He did not lead an unhappy life in Bag End, yet he knew that his happiness had been built from scraps carefully cut out following the lines of respectability. It was happiness preserved in a jar, flavours of a summer long gone.

Yet it was _his_ and no one should have spoken of his loneliness so carelessly.

“Oh, why did you have to come to the Shire?” Bilbo murmured, feeling quite vexed.

At first Thorin seemed mystified by such a complaint, then he sighed.

“I am not a zigrâl to seek for meaning in all things that happen,” the dwarf said, “and our meeting was improbable and implausible, Master Baggins. Yet I do not think it unfortunate.”

Bilbo softly pulled his lower lip between his teeth, glancing at Thorin.

“What is a zi-something?” he asked, knitting his brow.

“I’ll tell you,” Thorin said with a sharp smile, “this evening for our first lesson in Khuzdul.”

“I haven’t accepted yet. I could still go pack my things and...”

Bilbo could not help following the dwarf with his eyes when Thorin left his armchair and approached him.

“I’ll have books brought to my rooms from the library, and there will be paper and ink for you to practice with the runes,” the prince said, leaning casually to put his hand on the armrest and lower his head until he could look straight into Bilbo’s face. “We’ll start with Khuzdul, since you’re so interested in it, but I’ll teach you about my culture and my people’s manners if you wish it so.”

“Will you have time for all this?” Bilbo asked, surprised by Thorin’s keenness as much as by his physical proximity - he had almost forgotten how Thorin tended to be _overwhelming_ at times.

“It will be easier in the evenings, when I’m usually relieved of my duties, but I’ll make time during the day. You won’t have to worry about it. My father agreed to have you here as his guest and it’s time for you to be treated accordingly.”

“And what if I won’t come to your rooms tonight?” the hobbit inquired.

“I’ll have to _carry_ you to your lesson,” Thorin replied, blue eyes filled with mirth. “Whether I scoop you up in my arms like a dwarfling or throw you upon my shoulder like a bag of coal will be a surprise, Master Baggins.”

“It’s Bilbo,” the hobbit snapped back.

The prince’s mouth twitched in a smile. He stood up, with his hands on his silver belt.

“I have to go back to my duties now,” Thorin said, glancing at the teacups and then at Bilbo again. “I’ll wait for you after dinner.”

“I should make you wait,” the hobbit muttered under his breath. Thorin did not give any sign of having heard and took his leave. After a while, Bilbo raised his cup and took a sip. “This is what dwarves are good for - making your tea run cold,” he commented aloud, trying to sound as disgruntled as possible.

But he could feel himself smiling.   

 

*

 

“Please Thorin, please,” Bilbo moaned, gripping the edge of the table as if to steady himself against the dwarf’s merciless refusal. “I cannot take more than this.”

“I said _again_ ,” Thorin answered, as unyielding as he had been for the last three hours.

Bilbo bit his tongue, lest his reply be too sharp and harden Thorin against him. The hobbit had already begun to reconsider his opinion about the prince’s offer to teach him Khuzdul. He had thought it a kindness at first but now he suspected Thorin of perversity - oh there was something _vicious_ in the dwarf’s teaching methods!

“Repeat after me,” Thorin said for the umpteenth time. “ _Khuzd, Khazâd; khuzdûn, khuzdûnh_ ; _khuzdinh_ , _khuzdình_.”

Bilbo groaned softly, but recited the brief sequence. In his humble opinion his attempts at imitating the dwarf’s pronunciation deserved some praise, besides he had a good memory for words and he almost never failed to repeat them in the correct order. But he was quite tired at the moment and his tongue slipped too easily over the syllables, softening sounds which should have been harsh and failing to underline the difference between the last two words. To Bilbo they were almost the same sound, but Thorin insisted that there was a significant variation of accent. As a result, the prince looked utterly disappointed.

“Repeat again. You always miss the aspiration and you have to feel the sounds in your throat and on your tongue - you’re letting them run into your mouth like a sip of wine,” Thorin said scornfully.

“A sip of wine wouldn’t make things worse,” the hobbit replied.

But there was only tea on the table and Bilbo felt as if the last few evenings he had done nothing but drink gallons of tea and repeat the same words over and over, until Khuzdul sounds haunted him even in his dreams. Yet he poured himself another cup. It was barely lukewarm and there were no cookies nor cake to accompany it, but all those efforts to get the words right had left Bilbo’s throat parched as if he had been eating sawdust and he relished the soothing feeling of the drink on his tongue.

“Now, again,” Thorin said as soon as Bilbo had put down his cup.

The hobbit rolled his eyes and almost hoped to faint from exhaustion rather than keeping up with the prince’s relentless commitment to Khuzdul.

Bilbo’s fifth lesson was taking place, as usual, in Thorin’s quarters. The prince’s study was a large room used for formal meetings with councillors and ambassadors and it was therefore splendidly decorated and furnished, though not as sumptuous as the King’s own quarters. The high ceiling had been pierced and carved so skilfully that the dark, glossy stone seemed no heavier than a sheet of silk, while the golden light pouring from the lamps set on fire the delicate web of geometric patterns traced in silver and gold onto every piece of furniture, while leather-bound books filled the large niches in the walls.

Yet Bilbo was most fascinated - and repelled in the same measure - by the large window opening at the end of the room. The iron and glass panel looked upon the Northern side of the mountain, down the steep precipices and tongues of sharp rocks jutting toward the star-filled sky. Bilbo had stayed in Erebor long enough to know that large windows were not a common feature in Erebor and most of the dwarves did not really care for them - they had chimneys and vents to revive the air inside the Mountain, and mirrors and fires to fill it up with light.

The Northern quarters were an exception, since they were older than other areas and thus closer to the surface; besides, the Northern side of the mountain was far more dangerous than the other sides, punctured as it was with cliffs and abysses. Hence it was thought safer from threats, and windows and passages opened over such desolate, grey beauty.

Considering how disturbing Bilbo found the lack of natural light and fresh air under the Mountain, he felt pleased to have been put in the Northern wing and to have windows in his quarters. But the large window in Thorin’s study made him uncomfortable, reminding him of the great height of the Mountain and the great depth of the precipice. On the other hand, the study was surely exquisite in a dwarvish way, but it had not been created to host friendly meetings, it was rather a constant reminder of Thorin’s status, and imbued their lessons with a formality which sharpened Bilbo sense of failure.

Oh, Bilbo had been so happy at the idea of being taught Khuzdul and so confident of his own abilities! He had even thought that his knowledge of Sindarin and his long conversations with Gandalf about the nature of languages would have helped him, but Khuzdul was more obscure and complex than he had thought and he seemed unable to master its sounds.

The whole experience was only worsened by Thorin’s evident and growing disappointment in him.

“You’re not even trying,” the dwarf hissed, when Bilbo made another mistake.

Never before had Thorin voiced his frustration in such clear terms, but Bilbo guessed that they had both grown annoyed with each other through the ordeal of their lessons.  

“I’m tired,” Bilbo replied, appalled by how whiny his voice sounded even to his own ears.

“You thought it would be simple,” Thorin said - not a question, obviously.

“I thought that I’d learn something new lesson after lesson” the hobbit sighed. “All you ask me though is to repeat the same words while you glare at me because I don’t get them right. We spend all the time on this _k_ and _z_ , aspiring this and accenting that, until my tongue is all tied up. I don’t see how this will help me understand Khuzdul. I’m no better than I was when we started.”

“If you cannot manage to pronounce even the simplest words, how can I teach you more than those?” the dwarf asked, frowning.

“Well, then we should just move on and accept that I might not be able to speak as well as you wish me to,” Bilbo concluded.

His voice was thick with resentment and Thorin’s blue gaze hardened. Bilbo vaguely regretted his wish to learn Khuzdul - not in itself, but that it was deepening the gulf between them. Rather than an opportunity to enjoy each other’s company like they had done in the Shire during their walks, these lessons were driving them apart. It seemed that, in the end, Bilbo Baggins and Thorin son of Thráin could not speak the same language - quite literally this time.

It would have been so pleasant to indulge in other activities. Bilbo longed to learn more about Erebor, and he would have enjoyed having Thorin leading him through the still unintelligible maze of corridors and stairs and bridges. He wanted to see the famous forges of Erebor and understand the scenes depicted on the high walls, he wanted to ask so many questions about dwarves and their customs, yet he did not dare state his desires.

Bilbo felt that there was still some awkwardness between them, not quite healed by Thorin’s resolve to teach him Khuzdul. The prince was more reserved that he had been in the Shire and Bilbo could not help feeling slightly deceived. He had thought he would have some of Thorin’s companionship back, but all he had got from the lessons were a fatigued mind and a sore throat. The hobbit was not even sure if the poor results of the lessons were truly due to Thorin’s uncompromising style of teaching - and not instead to the fact that he resented the shift in his relationship with Thorin. This relationship between teacher and pupil had ceased to amuse him after the first two lessons, it had now become a barrier and a source of uneasiness.

“I don’t do things by halves,” Thorin replied at last.

His voice was strained, and Bilbo guessed that those were not the first words which had come to the dwarf’s mind - oh no, these were but a pale shadow of Thorin’s true feelings. He probably felt insulted by the sheer idea of Bilbo settling for a lesser goal and he was just curbing his temper rather than lashing out. Strangely, Bilbo found himself more annoyed by Thorin’s restraint than pleased by the fact that the dwarf was trying to avoid a fight.

“You know, these lessons are not only about you,” he replied, tapping his fingers on the table. He had already noticed that Thorin did not particularly like it, but he could not help channelling his own nervousness into such a silly gesture. “I truly want to learn, but you have to be more patient with me and allow me to take some pleasure in these lessons. I should be looking forward to these evenings.”

_These evenings with you_ , Bilbo added in his own mind, but he did not say the words. And in truth he regretted even those he had spoken, since something akin to hurt appeared on the dwarf’s face. Bilbo could not see more of it, because Thorin’s gaze dropped to the papers scattered over the table.

“You speak as if I have been _torturing_ you,” the prince commented, pretending to make light of Bilbo’s comment and failing - his tone was too serious, his posture too stiff. “I fear you fail to understand what these lessons mean. Khuzdul may not be a well-guarded secret anymore and his knowledge may be shared with less difficulty than it was in the past, yet I’m among those who still hold it sacred.”

“Are you suggesting that I should better be grateful for the honour bestowed upon me?” Bilbo inquired, barely managing to keep a challenging note out of his voice.

“I don’t care for your gratitude,” Thorin snapped, “but I hoped that you’d understand that _this_ is...an exception,” he added, more gruffly. “I’m making an exception for you, my father the King is making an exception for you. You are the first creature in fifty years who has been offered the opportunity to learn Khuzdul. You may think that it doesn’t really count, since out there men and elves may be picking up words and figures of speech from Khuzdul at this very moment. Khazâd may no longer guard their mother tongue as our ancestors did, but for some of us - for me - it’s still a treasure and teaching it is a sign of trust. Do not ask me to be content with anything less, this is my gift and I cannot make it easier or simpler.”

As usual when Thorin slipped into eloquence, Bilbo fell silent. It was partially from surprise, but it was also because he feared that one wrong word would push Thorin back into his shell of curtness. And this time the dwarf had given him something to think about - yes, Bilbo knew the deep pride Thorin took in his own culture, but his dissatisfaction with the lessons had blinded him to their possible meaning.

“I gave you a story and you’re giving me your language?” the hobbit murmured after a while.

Thorin blinked, and Bilbo strangely thought that the dwarf might have not realised it before. Even while he nodded, Thorin appeared almost surprised - as if he had not grasped the personal aspect of the whole business. He had already talked about honour and trust, but in formal, official terms.

It had taken the King’s own permission, Gandalf’s, Thorin’s word on Bilbo’s behalf, and a minor decree to allow a hobbit from the Shire to learn Khuzdul. Bilbo had found all this a little excessive and he had begrudged it its dry formality. Oh, it would have been simpler if their lessons had been but a kindness among friends!

“I may have offered you my gift less graciously than you did with your tale,” the prince admitted, ruefully.

“I don’t mean to refuse this opportunity and I’m truly flattered by the privilege,” Bilbo conceded, “but I’d be far more pleased to know that _you_ want to teach me Khuzdul, rather than thrilled by the fact that there’s some royal decree with my name written on it.”

“The two things are the same, my father the King signed that decree at my insistence.”

“I speak to you as Thorin and you answer me as the heir to the throne.”

“Aren’t we the same?” the dwarf insisted. “You think of it as a role I play on a stage. It isn’t. It’s my own nature, my fate, the dream leading my steps when I’m awake - all in one. If I have ever induced you to think that from time to time I’m no longer the prince, but a common dwarf who holds no responsibility toward...”

“Stop,” the hobbit commanded, raising his hand. “I don’t believe there is anything like being... _naturally_ something - whether you’re speaking of kings or burglars. There are just things we learn to be, sometimes for pleasure, sometimes for necessity. sometimes they are thrust upon us, sometimes we choose them freely. But you were not born king more than I was born... _me_.”

“Haven’t you often talked about your...Tookish streak?” Thorin asked, raising his brow.

“Because other hobbits like to call it that,” Bilbo grumbled. “But it’s just the way I grew up in Bag End, and the sort of hobbit my mother was. It’s just my experience and my personal history, affected by the circumstances of my life.”

“I’d be glad to agree with you,” Thorin said, caressing his beard. “But while your people don’t care about history, we Khazâd believe in the legacy of our ancestors - their victories are the lights of our nights and their failures shadows on our steps. I was born to be king. Some may think it a burden, others a blessing; to me it is but who I am.”

“So who you are is who you are going to be?” Bilbo inquired, fully aware that Thorin would not like his fastidiousness upon such a topic. But the hobbit could not let the matter rest without even trying to understand. “What will you do once you have become King under the Mountain?”

“Become a better king,” Thorin replied swiftly, as if his answer had been rehearsed year after year.

“Just that?” Bilbo asked - they were back to blunt questions and he was not surprised when Thorin’s cheeks grew slightly darker, flushing from ill-repressed rage.

“ _Just_?” the prince repeated, almost choking on the single word. He turned abruptly toward the window - to compose himself, Bilbo thought. “So that I’m to be king is of no consequence to you,” Thorin said, still looking at the slice of dark sky pierced by stars which gleamed through the window. His voice was calmer, but from coldness rather than friendliness. “You are not impressed, you are not intimidated by it - in truth I had already gathered as much on our first meeting.”

“Why should you want me to be intimidated?” Bilbo replied, shuddering.

The hobbit had thought that their relationship had moved on from that first meeting when Thorin had been offended by his unwillingness to play the part of the humble servant before the high-born guest. But now he feared that part of Thorin - especially here in Erebor - still craved his obedience rather than his friendship. Yet the prince ignored Bilbo’s question.

“You do not care about my future as king,” he said instead, fixing his blue eyes on the hobbit, “as you do not care about how sacred and prized I hold this language of mine.”

“That’s not true!”

_I care about you_ , he should have said, but he was not sure it would have been the sort of remark that Thorin might have appreciated. It seemed too sentimental and impractical. He cared about the dwarf’s future, and his culture and his ambitions as well, yet it was difficult to express it in deeds. If Thorin had been a hobbit, Bilbo would have probably known how to behave, but Thorin was a dwarf and Bilbo was not in Bag End, king of his kitchen and master of his garden - pies and flowers, pipe-weed and merry songs seemed but poor offers in the opulent dwarf kingdom.

“How could you ever understand?” Thorin snorted, interrupting the hobbit’s awkward silence. “Halflings have no king. Your people do not care for politics, you do not accumulate riches nor victories, there’s no army patrolling the Shire nor ambassadors seeking allies outside your borders. You content yourself with plants and recipes and idle chattering. How could you appreciate the life I live?”

“You cannot be angry at me because we hobbits find happiness elsewhere,” Bilbo stuttered, feeling his cheeks aflame and his heart beating faster at the shock of Thorin’s resentment. He had not failed to notice how the prince had used that insulting term - _halflings_ \- with the express purpose of hurting him. “You cannot be angry at me because I’m a hobbit!” Bilbo exclaimed and he heard his voice rising far higher than he had expected.

“Yet you’re angry at me because I’m a dwarf!” Thorin shouted back.

Bilbo pushed his chair back, and stood up. He could not look at Thorin and he noticed the runes traced on the papers appeared blurred and watery.

“Enough of this lesson today,” the hobbit said, almost breathlessly.

Thorin did not speak.

Bilbo made to gather his things, trying to ignore the slight tremor in his fingers. He felt furious and more than furious he was sad. In the end he did not take anything with him - he left behind the papers where he had scrabbled the runes, the ink-bottles and the quills, even the journal where he had thought to record his progresses.

Bilbo did not run, he did not slam the door closed, he even bade Thorin a good night before leaving. Yet he felt like running, slamming, shouting.   


	9. Irakdashat

_This is a bad idea_ , Bilbo thought. He worried the embroidered hem of his tunic with his fingers - his skin was still unused to his new clothes and felt itchy under the wool. The door to Thorin’s quarters was a dark heavy thing of oak and burnished metal; unguarded. The sons of Durin ill-tolerated having guards following their steps and prided themselves on being able to face threats on their own. Guards stood at the entrance to the royal quarters, but no one watched over the prince’s door and no one would be there to witness Bilbo’s retreat.

 _I could just go away_ \- but he did not move. He had made a promise and he was in the habit of keeping his word. Besides, despite what Thorin thought about it, he _did_ want to resume his lessons in Khuzdul. This evening would be as good as any other.

Still Bilbo could not bring himself to knock and lingered before the huge door. There was some tension coiling up in his guts and cooling in a thin layer of sweat on his nape - _what a foolish, traitorous thing a body is!_ Even when Bilbo had already made up his mind to be most sensible whenever Thorin was involved, his limbs would not be reasonable and would instead present him with all sorts of symptoms - a flutter in his heart, blood rising to his cheeks, emptiness pooling in his stomach (of the sort that he could not satisfy with nibbling at pastries or candied fruits).  

Bilbo had not returned to Thorin’s rooms and Thorin had not sought his company since their last row, the one fuelled by their combined frustration upon Bilbo’s scant progress with Khuzdul (one could not really help but notice that they had such a record of quarrels so as to make necessary distinguishing them by cause, place, and consequences).

They had kept seeing each other at the King’s table and there had not been any glaring on Thorin’s part, while Bilbo had spared him any bitter remark - he had even ignored Frerin’s teasing about the state of his Khuzdul. They had both had a few days’ time to soothe their wounded pride, or whatever their disagreement had hurt. Bilbo would not linger on the fact that Thorin had not come to... _carry_ him to his lesson as he had once threatened to do, much to Bilbo’s indignation. Yet being indignant would have been better than being ignored.

“Prince Thorin has a reputation for being...” Master Bofur had said, making a strange gesture that might have meant _stuck-up_ or something more colourful. “But you should have seen him. He had no obligation to come to our house and inquire about my cousin’s well-being, after all Bifur was but another warrior in Thorin’s company in the last offensive against the orc tribes festering along our borders. Yet one day I came back from my appointment with Master Balin to find prince Thorin himself sharing a pipe with Bifur. He wanted to know how Bifur had fared after he had been dismissed from the company and they talked about the lives they had taken and the companions they had lost. I’ve never heard so much Khuzdul spoken in our house and the prince’s Iglishmêk was swift enough when Bifur could not find his words in Khuzdul.”

 _Exactly my luck_ , Bilbo had thought. Thorin had come back from his visit to Hobbiton market fully aware of Bilbo’s appalling reputation among his own folk, his mind poisoned by Lobelia’s slanders, but Bilbo’s visit to Erebor market had ended up with Master Bofur singing Thorin’s praises. That was not quite what the hobbit had been looking forward to when he had decided to replenish his stock of clothes.

Most of Bilbo’s clothes were worn-out after what they had endured on his journey from the West. Plus, the Mountain’s peak was already white with snow and in the morning the hobbit always found a thin layer of frost on his windowsill. Winter in Erebor promised to be far colder than the winters Bilbo was used to in the Shire, and when prince Frerin had summoned his tailors...

“I prefer to choose my own clothes, thank you very much,” Bilbo had explained to Master Bofur. “I fear that I and the court tailors have irreconcilable ideas on fashion.”

At that point of the conversation, Bilbo had already become familiar with the toymaker’s unruffled approach to almost any topic and he had felt quite at ease confiding in him his grievances. Besides, Master Bofur had practically saved him from being lost in the market - truly, not even the great market held at Lithe in Michel Delving was as crowded and noisy as the one held daily in Erebor!

From top to bottom, through its several levels of smaller and bigger shops nestled in the stone limbs of the Mountain, the Erebor market was crammed with clients and merchants and artisans - from the humblest tinker to the proudest jeweller, from the bakers selling dark hard-crusted bread with a core of mashed mushroom to the stone-carvers carrying chisels in their belts and carelessly juggling with their hammers.

It was easy to get crushed and trampled over among such a rowdy crowd, even easier for a hobbit who felt not unlike a porcelain teacup among many pewter mugs.

But then Master Bofur had recognised Bilbo from their previous encounter.

“Master Baggins!”

Bilbo’s pace had come to a halt and he had spun on his heels to find himself almost chest to chest with a quite disgruntled stranger. The dwarf had made to grab him by the shoulder, supposedly to push the hobbit out of his way, but another hand had landed first on Bilbo’s collar, pulling him aside.

The dwarf merchant, whose impressive bulk and even more impressive grey beard had sported a great number of golden ornaments, had barked something in Khuzdul - a curse, Bilbo had guessed, then he had moved on in a chorus of clinks and chinks, disappearing into one of the nearest shops.

“It’s Master Baggins, isn’t it?”

Bilbo had turned his head to look at the dwarf who had saved him from the rudeness of the merchant, the same dwarf whose loud calling had induced him to stop abruptly in the middle of the market and thus to be almost trodden over by someone twice his weight. It was hardly surprising that Bilbo’s feelings for the dwarf had been at odds then.

“Yes, it’s Master Baggins.”

It had been difficult to remember if he had met the dwarf before. All those thick beards and moustaches and tresses made most of the dwarves look quite similar to one another in Bilbo’s eyes. The parade of belts encrusted with gems, thick golden rings, and carved beads often managed to distract him - he truly could not fathom how dwarves coped with all that weight in ornaments. But Master Bofur had looked quite less festooned than others; the frank, sympathetic gaze he had turned on Bilbo had been enough to distinguish him from the scowling, contemptuous merchants the hobbit had been dealing with in the market.

“With whom do I the pleasure of addressing?” Bilbo had inquired, deciding to flaunt some manners as long as no one would start pushing him right and left again.

It had been with some relief that Bilbo had realised that he and the dwarf had been standing in a quieter corner at the end of the upper promenade, before a statue of some dwarvish deity. Like most of the effigies dwarves carved in stone or casted in metal, it showed a rigidity of features which denied any impression of life. In Rivendell statues possessed a life-like grace, but dwarf sculpture was more concerned with repeating the imperturbable ideal of the mighty dwarf wielding his hammer in war as in peace. Only in almost complete darkness did the sudden light coming from a torch and bouncing on a golden forehead or a granite cheek deceive the eye, breathing some life into those impassive figures.

This particular statue held a hammer in its right hand and a scale in its left. Bilbo’s head reached but the figure’s waist and he had had to stretch his neck to see its dark granite face. Hair and beard braided in a quite complicated pattern flowing to its booted feet, the statue looked down the upper promenade, perfectly untouched by the bustle of the market. Gems - white, blue, and yellow in colour - were in its beard and hair, shining cold in their notches of black stone.

“ _Thatrûna_ _Gimlinh Izgharrukidi_ ,” the dwarf had said, catching Bilbo’s eye for a moment before turning to look at the stone figure towering over them. “Varda the Judge as she’s known among Men, may her blessing fall upon our trade.”

“But she’s not supposed to...” _have a beard_ Bilbo had almost said, but he had stopped.

It would have been tactless; whatever beliefs dwarves held, it  was not his place to challenge them. Yet, it had been very strange to see Varda thus portrayed. In truth he had not even been sure that the statue was a _she_ , with the beard and the fierce posture. Was it possible that dwarves had never heard tales of her flowing curls, where stars blossomed like flowers in Spring? Did they not know that she was a gentle, fair lady with skin as white and warm as milk? And that sometimes at dusk you can hear her laughter while she walks barefoot through the wheat fields, arm-in-arm with Yavanna...

“Bofur, toymaker” the dwarf had introduced himself, perfectly ignorant of Bilbo’s musings about deities and beliefs. He had been crushing something in his hands, and it had been suddenly revealed to be a hat when he had put it upon his head, pulling at its flapping sides. “We met...”

“You were with your brother and your cousin, asking the King to fund your shop,” Bilbo had interrupted him, forgetting his manners in the delight of having recognised the toymaker at last. “I do remember your hat and your toys!”

“It’s good to have made an impression,” Master Bofur had commented, with a careless smile.

“You invited me to visit your shop, once it had been opened”.

 _But then I forgot_ , Bilbo had admitted to himself, _because I was too focused on what was going on at the King’s court_. And clearly the court was not the place where he could have met Master Bofur or heard about his enterprise’s progresses. That Master Bofur was a commoner was evident even to a hobbit who still had much to learn about Erebor’s society; Master Bofur did not belong to the influential, prosperous rank of the merchants and Guild Masters who often sat at the King’s table. His garments were plainer, he still wore too many layers and too much leather and metal, but at least Bilbo had not felt pressured around Bofur the way he had by the unabashed display of wealth and power put up by the average courtier.

The day he and Gandalf had entered Erebor, Bilbo had spoken to no one - the wizard had dealt with guards and clerks, and Bilbo had just trotted behind Gandalf, staring and gaping at Erebor’s grandeur. Master Bofur had been apparently unfazed by the wizard’s presence at Bilbo’s side and he had immediately engaged the hobbit in conversation while they had been waiting for their turn to appear before King Thráin. Rather than ogling at the hobbit as if he could have stolen the secret of his identity from inside his skull (as other dwarves in the crowd had seemed inclined to do), Master Bofur had introduced himself and his relatives, then proceeded with questions about hobbit preferences on the subject of toys.

Thus the hobbit had felt slightly miserable at the idea that he had managed to wipe that unassuming, jovial dwarf out of his mind and he resolved to make amends for his forgetfulness

“I’m truly sorry” Bilbo had said, with as much haste as sincerity. “I should have come to your shop.”

“No harm done, not at all!” the dwarf had exclaimed, without trying to hide his surprise nor his pleasure at Bilbo’s words. “I wouldn’t expect the King’s own guest to spare much time for my shop, though the King’s own gold supports my enterprise. I’m sure that you’ve been busy enough among all those dignitaries and aristocrats and I won’t hold it against you. I suppose royals are a handful for anyone.”

Bilbo had gaped at the dwarf’s words - and he had thought Thorin _blunt_! But he had soon realised that Master Bofur had spoken without any malice, he had not resented him his forgetfulness and he had promptly forgiven what another dwarf (and even another hobbit) would have considered a proper snub. If that had spoken of naivety or wisdom on Master Bofur’s part, Bilbo still could not say, but he had felt more at ease than he had in weeks.

They had chatted for a while before the statue of Varda, but when Bilbo had confessed the reason for his visit to the market, Master Bofur had offered to lead him to another - less pretentious - dressmaker. Bilbo had jogged along, trying to keep up with the toymaker fending off the crowd without much effort. It had been easier to walk behind Master Bofur, moving into his wake rather than squeezing himself in the crowd.

“Gandalf himself seemed much amused with your creations and in the Shire we hold him as an authority when it comes to entertainment!” Bilbo had exclaimed, slightly out of breath, when they had left the upper promenade for a flight of stairs.

“Aye, aye! We haven’t been opened but for a few days, it took us time to organise our workshop and understand all the rules befalling those who receive the King’s attention. We sold toys before at the crossroad markets and in the cities of men...and a pretty amount of money fell into our hands then without too much kerfuffle, but I guess on the road there’s no need for as many decrees and laws as there is in a proper Kingdom. Gold is still gold on the road as under the Mountain, but here it’s weighed with more accuracy. A toy is still a toy in Erebor and dwarflings laugh at the same tricks, but if the King puts his name all over your shop and pays the expenses, your toys must meet higher requirements.”

As when he had talked about Bilbo’s forgetfulness, Master Bofur had spoken matter-of-factly and his voice had not been clouded with bitterness.

Bilbo had felt slightly scandalised; among gentle-hobbits speaking about money in such bare terms would have been considered shockingly vulgar. In Bilbo’s experience, bargains at the market had to be discretely dealt with, suggesting and joking about prices. On the contrary, dwarves loved numbers and records and even the lowest vendor kept his account journal; they weighed and measured everything, being very fastidious about payments - all in a loud and boisterous way.

A gentle-hobbit would have rather cunningly alluded to the topic and then let his audience’s imagination do the rest. _No_ , Bilbo had said to himself thoughtfully, _a gentle-hobbit wouldn’t be so straightforward_.

He had found himself rather liking it, in the same way he had learnt to appreciate Thorin’s bluntness.

“I suppose everything comes with a price,” Bilbo had commented, hoping that it would be the right thing to say - his quarrels with Thorin always left him under the impression of having chosen his words unwisely.

“A fair price in this case! We couldn’t have done better on our own. We have been given quite a good place in the market and plenty to start with. The King’s name is well-trusted here as in Dale, Khazâd and men are glad to buy from the shops under the King’s patronage.”

“I recall Master Balin was appointed to help you carry out your plans.”

“Yes, the King’s Councillor has been keeping an eye on us since that day. Master Balin is a most reasonable fellow and though I fear he doesn’t understand much about mechanical toys, he’s surely well-versed with letters and numbers. He even taught me and Bombur how to keep a proper account of our expenses and profits - it was not his call, no sir, but he thought that we might do with some learning.”

“I’m glad to hear that, since I know Master Balin to be trustworthy.”

“He was one of those who travelled to your Shire, wasn’t he?” the dwarf had mused, stopping at a shop selling dried fruits and mushrooms.

“He was my guest indeed.”

“And the prince with him.” Bilbo had barely kept himself from frowning at the mere mention of Thorin. “Capital fellow, that prince Thorin!” Master Bofur had cried, baffling Bilbo out of his composure.

“Is he?” he had gaped, staring at the dwarf’s broad smile and quivering moustache.

“But surely you _do_ know it better than me!”

“Do I?” Bilbo had asked helplessly, feeling a little idiotic.

“Well, you’re the one taking lessons in Khuzdul from him,” the dwarf had pointed out, at last moving further down the market and almost disappearing from Bilbo’s sight when they had met a thicker crowd discussing the advantages of a certain tempering method over another. “It’s a big thing coming from a prince!” the hobbit had heard him shout over the noise of the heated discussion. “I’d say that we’ve been hardly talking of anything else since your arrival and the announcement that you were to be taught Khuzdul by the heir himself,” Bofur had revealed as soon as Bilbo had been at his side again. “You’re a proper personage Master Baggins, far more entertaining than the last crown on the Woodland King’s head or the brawls in the streets of Dale. Dwarves might be too proud to show their interest in your person, but I can assure you that there’re all sorts of ideas going around.”

Bilbo had gone a little pale at the news. He had already guessed that the lack of interest most of the dwarves showed toward him was feigned - after all, hobbits did not behave so differently. His cousin Lobelia, for example, was in the habit of pretending to loathe the very sight and name of him, but she hardly ever missed the chance to collect information about how he fared in Bag End, from the number of silver spoons kept in his drawers to the amount of ink he consumed in a month.

Yet hearing such things from Master Bofur was quite different from suspecting the dwarves of gossiping and speculating about his person. It had made Bilbo feel bare and his skin had prickled as if half of the dwarves in the market had suddenly turned their eyes on him.

“Good, indeed, very good,” Bilbo had muttered.

“You should forgive our curiosity, Master Baggins. We never see hobbits in Erebor, we aren’t acquainted with your kin as the dwarves in Ered Luin are. I know, because I lived there for a while. Sometimes a dwarf would move to the Shire to work as a smith, or would trade with your merchants and farmers. But I haven’t seen any hobbit since my family moved East. Here - don’t mind me saying that! - you’re quite the oddity of the season.”

“It seems to me that you dwarves are quite anxious to learn about my race, but thoroughly unconcerned with _me_.” As soon as he had spoken though, Bilbo had regretted his words. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, it’s all right,” Master Bofur had answered, patting his shoulder. Bilbo had done his best not to flinch at the show of friendliness - he knew that dwarves were prone to touch and squeeze and punch with liberality, even if they barely knew each other. “You may be right, but there’s only one hobbit in Erebor for the time being. We’re going to take you as representative of your people.”

“And assume that all hobbits are like me? But don’t you see that’s most unfair?” Bilbo had replied stiffly. “I don’t want such a responsibility toward my whole race, I’d rather be known for who _I_ am.”

“Aren’t you a hobbit?” Master Bofur had asked, smiling - not teasing, though.

“I’ve grown into a strange kind of hobbit,” Bilbo had answered after a moment. “The sort of hobbit who travels as far as the Kingdom under the Mountain, and has been living among dwarves for weeks.”

“Does it bother you?”

“I honestly don’t know. Not yet.”

“You’ll have the whole winter to sort that out.”

But it would be a very long and wearisome winter indeed, if he and Thorin did not sort their differences out. This was one of the reasons why Bilbo was lingering outside the prince’s door, the other reason being his promise to Master Bofur.

Bilbo had been unable to explain that he and Thorin were not on good terms at the moment - Master Bofur was quite overwhelming and it would have been impossible to sully the toymaker’s admiration for the prince. Apparently Thorin had not only done them a great honour in visiting their home, but he had also commissioned some toys for his nephew from Bifur. Since the prince’s visit the number of customers had been growing - and Bofur was convinced that it had been Thorin himself who had taken care to spread the news of his purchase, thus encouraging others to follow in his footsteps.

“You wouldn’t suspect it,” Master Bofur had confessed, “since prince Thorin appears so distant - I mean, prince Frerin has a reputation for being quite friendly to simple folks like me, but prince Thorin...you know, I didn’t understand why Bifur’s had followed him as far as to end up with an axe in his head. I see now that prince Thorin is one that Khazâd may follow into darkness and fire.”

Bilbo had found such remarks a little dramatic - but all dwarves had this sort of tendency to exaggerate things here and there. At the same time he had been impressed. Oh, there was some kindness in Thorin, Bilbo would not have thought of him as a friend otherwise. But he had also doubted the resilience of such a feeling in Thorin’s heart - how could kindness survive against Thorin’s arrogance and ambitions?

Yet it seemed that there was still a place for gratefulness and companionship in the prince’s heart. Thus Bilbo had been persuaded to carry out this little errand on Master Bofur’s behalf.

“Bring my greetings to the prince, will you?” the dwarf had asked of him for the second time. “It will be pleasant for him to hear them from the mouth of his hobbit friend.”

Thorin had never called him his _hobbit friend_. He had never, truth to be told, called him _friend_ at all. But Bilbo believed that even in his most verbose moments Thorin left much unspoken, thus Bilbo could foster this heart-warming idea that there was some understanding between him and the dwarf.

Master Bofur, on the other hand, was definitely a _speaker_. He had been generous in words and deeds alike; he had talked of his family and his work at large, interrupting his own narrative to suggest this or that stall in the market. He had given the hobbit a completely new insight into Erebor and its inhabitants, revealing to Bilbo another Mountain that was not made in gold and princes.

Then he had taken Bilbo to the new toyshop, where the hobbit had been treated to a light meal of smoked ham, goat cheese, and a bowl of soup made from sour milk and a combination of radishes with unpronounceable names. Master Bombur had been as friendly as his brother and he would have probably been as garrulous, had he not been so busy gobbling down his food and stealing some more from Master Bofur’s plate. Master Bifur was another matter, the battle-wound he had received while fighting under Thorin’s order had left him unable to speak but Khuzdul and Iglishmêk. Since Bilbo’s knowledge of the former was still poor, while he was utterly ignorant of the second, he had not properly conversed with the dwarf. Yet Master Bifur had seemed pleased enough with observing his cousins and their hobbit guest.

Before Bilbo could leave, Master Bifur had talked swiftly in Khuzdul with Bofur.

“He says that you have to take our greetings and blessings to prince Thorin,” Bofur had translated. “Will you do it for us? It’s not just for the shop and the funds; prince Thorin was kind to my cousin and we would like him to know that we are grateful for what he has done for us.”

The toymakers wished to nurture their profitable relationship with the royal family. There was calculation in it, but also a sincere wish to serve the King and his relatives. Bilbo had not found it in himself to refuse, especially knowing that their message would have been lost among the many pleas and praises which were addressed to the dwarf prince every day. Thorin had made this business quite personal and the toymakers had chosen Bilbo to carry their personal message. What could have Bilbo done but accept their entreaty?

 _Let’s get it over with_ , Bilbo said to himself, feeling almost ashamed at having lingered so long before a closed door. What was going on with this unexpected shyness of his? Thorin had been his guest and slept under Bag End’s roof, they had already yelled at each other and said hurtful words - surely this put him, Bilbo Baggins, in the position of knocking on the prince’s door at his pleasure.  

He did it then and almost shuddered at how loud it seemed. Bilbo would have been surprised to know that he was counting in his head while staring at the door and that he was rocking on the balls of his feet as if on the verge of leaving at any moment. But before he could reach forty-three the door opened and Thorin appeared in the doorway.    

He did not look surprised - as if Bilbo’s visit had not been completely unexpected, yet his pupils grew slightly larger in amazement when he took in the hobbit’s appearance. Bilbo could not help backing away a little under Thorin’s inquisitive gaze.

“Come in,” Thorin said briskly, preventing whatever could have come to Bilbo’s mind.

He moved aside, leaving the hobbit space enough to slip into the antechamber. Bilbo suddenly felt very aware of his new clothes and scratched his left wrist again under the too-long sleeve. He threw a sly glance in Thorin’s direction, noticing that the dwarf was wearing looser clothes than usual - quite underdressed by dwarf standards. Some colour rose to Bilbo’s cheeks - _oh Green Lady_ , was Thorin...entertaining a guest?

“Your clothes,” the dwarf said, his hands behind his back.

“I needed some changes. The rest of my garments are too ruined or too light for this season,” Bilbo stuttered, almost sure of having being caught looking at the passage which led to Thorin’s chamber.

But the dwarf said nothing about it.

“Where did you get them?” he inquired instead.

“From Master Bofur the toymaker,” Bilbo answered without thinking. Thorin’s expression shifted at the mention and Bilbo swiftly corrected himself: “I mean - I went to the market, but then it was Master Bofur who showed me where I could find some clothes.”

The prince’s blue eyes seemed to measure him from head to foot, making Bilbo even more fidgety than before. He knew that the new clothes where still ill-fitting. Dwarf clothes were cut on their wearers’ broader and sturdier bulk. Tunics were more popular than shirts, laces were preferred to buttons, and braces did not seem to be particularly appreciated. Therefore it had been quite difficult to find something which could appeal to Bilbo’s sense of decorum and could be adapted to his different proportions without too much fuss.

Still he felt like a hobbitling in his father’s clothes, with the long sleeves that kept sliding down his wrists, his trousers rolled up to show his ankles, and the new woollen tunic tucked into the too heavy belt.

“You didn’t need to go haggling at the market,” Thorin said roughly, meeting Bilbo’s eyes for a moment before letting his gaze fall again on his clothes as if they were too disturbing a sight to be ignored. “My brother could have...”

Bilbo found himself riled up by the mere mention of Frerin.

“Oh no, thank you very much,” he interrupted Thorin, waving his hand to dismiss the idea. “I’ve already had enough of your brother’s dressmakers. I refuse to meet again with those thick-headed dwarves determined to madden me with their absurd pretence. Oh, generous indeed on your brother’s part! They were rude, and do not dare think that I need to learn Khuzdul to know when someone is making unflattering comments about me or my clothes. They tried to handle me like a doll, grabbing and pulling and taking measures as if I were a hobbitling or a simpleton unable to choose for my own good - they almost tore my last good shirt to shreds! Your brother was amused though,” he added, feeling that Frerin’s scarce sympathy and generous sniggering was hardly less offensive that the dressmakers’ behaviour.

“You threatened to cut their beards,” Thorin said sternly.

“They grasped my ankles to force my feet into _boots_!” Bilbo replied, almost breathless from anger at the humiliating memory. Then he froze, and shot a glance at Thorin’s embarrassed expression. “So, you already knew,” he realised, flustered with annoyance.

Apparently there was no end to his mortification concerning his misadventure with the dressmakers - Frerin and Thorin had talked about it, and probably laughed behind his back.

“You should have come to me,” Thorin said gruffly.

Bilbo did not know if Thorin was referring to his quarrel with the dressmakers or to his need for clothes. Either way these amends came too late for Bilbo to appreciate them.

“Much good it would have done.”

“I’d have...” Thorin began, but stopped almost immediately. He stepped closer to the hobbit and reached for the collar of his tunic, sliding his fingers between the cloth and Bilbo’s neck, and thus carelessly brushing the most tender skin stretched over the clavicle. “How did you pay for these?” Thorin asked, pinching the fabric between his fingers as if to assess its quality.

“With my savings from the journey, thank you very much,” Bilbo spluttered.

By then the hobbit had grown tomato-red; inquiring about the money in his pockets and toying with his clothes, _indeed_ \- only such a daft insufferable dwarf could think of doing both at the same time! Guessing that Thorin would probably add something on the subject of _providing_ for the King’s guests, Bilbo tore himself away from Thorin’s absent-minded touch and shot him a warning glance as soon as the dwarf opened his mouth again.

“You _do_ make things difficult,” the prince commented sourly. “You refused to be dressed by the Master of the Tailors’ Guild, yet you are pleased with the clothes chosen by a toymaker.”

“ _I_ chose my clothes. Master Bofur was only kind enough to suggest where I could find garments without being harassed by a bunch of dwarves who think too highly of their own tastes and customs,” Bilbo replied, displeasure loosening his tongue.

Thorin’s face flushed at that, but his blue eyes remained cold and severe.   

“I won’t have you dressed as a miner.”

“Oh, this is precious!” Bilbo whistled, his hands at his waist. “You always use two different measures to judge my behaviour and yours. You can visit their house and be praised for your open-heartedness, but then you are annoyed with me for having accepted good advice.”

“You...” Thorin started, clearly taken aback by the fact that Bilbo knew of his visit to Master Bifur. “It’s hardly the same thing and you know nothing about it. What do you understand of the bond between those who fight together and shed blood for the same purpose?”

“As if I could ever forget that you have no consideration but for blood-thirsty warriors!”

“Mahal, it has never been about thirsting for blood - if you only knew what protecting your kin...but this is not the point,” Thorin grumbled, biting down on his knuckles. “Why do you always force me to move farther and farther from the point, until I find myself entangled in some futile dispute? I visited an _azaghâl_ \- a warrior who fought under my command. This has nothing to do with you wearing garments made for miners and stonemasons.”

“How can you appreciate Master Bifur, and then talk about his life and his trade with such contempt? What does it take to earn your respect, Thorin?” Bilbo inquired, peering up at the dwarf’s scowl.

“Honour and a willing heart are all I ask from those who want to stand by my side,” Thorin answered, his shoulders growing stiff.  

“Is there any honour in demanding I wear boots? You saw my people walk bare-footed, you’ve seen _me_. Are my feet so disgraceful that you cannot stand...”

“For Mahal’s sake, Bilbo!” the dwarf interrupted him. “It was my brother’s doing. Why do you think I had a hand in that?”

“Maybe because it seems so _like_ you - wishing me different,” Bilbo replied, feeling the sourness of his words at the back of his mouth. Thorin blinked. For a fleeting moment Bilbo thought that the dwarf would say something which would shake the ground where they stood, but it did not happen. “I didn’t ask you to dress up as a hobbit while you were under my roof. As you never fail to remind me, I’m a hobbit. I don’t follow your rules, I do not belong to your world.”

Something strange passed on the dwarf’s face, as if he had just swallowed the bitterest morsel.

“Dress as you please then. You can go around clad in rags for what I care.”

“ _There_ \- you care only when you are in control,” Bilbo remarked.  

“This wouldn’t explain why...” Thorin began, in such a sneering yet resentful tone that Bilbo already felt sore for the words still to come.

But he would never know what Thorin had intended to say.

“Irak’adad? Kluta hugûlh, achùshuma.”

Few words, yet too many and too quickly spoken for Bilbo to understand the dwarfling who had just appeared in the archway to Thorin’s chambers. Bilbo saw the dwarfling catch his eye for a moment, then turn his expectant gaze upon Thorin - _this must be Fíli_.

He had never seen the dwarfling before, not so closely. He had just caught some glimpses of him in the royal quarters, usually accompanied by his mother or one of his teachers. But no one had ever introduced Bilbo to the dwarfling and Fíli had never appeared at dinner, still too young to sit at the King’s table then and to meet the hobbit guest apparently.

“Ma-gurd, huzûgh zatâmnâramâ. Tank,” Thorin said to the dwarfling, his voice deep and quiet if slightly throaty after his squabbling with Bilbo.

Seeing Fíli after having heard about him from Thorin’s lips and having written a tale for his pleasure, made Bilbo feel strange in the dwarfling’s presence. Noticing Fíli’s likeness to Thorin was even more bizarre, the big nose and something in his posture were definitely Thorin’s. Another observer would have immediately spotted prince Fíli’s striking resemblance to his mother the princess Dís and then the golden hair Fíli shared with his father, but Bilbo was looking for Thorin rather than for Dís or Heptifili, and immediately found him in Fíli.

The shock of seeing Thorin’s features on such a young face was coupled with sweet relief at the realisation that no one else other than Fíli had been Thorin’s mysterious guest. And that the colour Bilbo had seen on Thorin’s cheek when he had opened the door had been put there by laughter and the slight disarray of his garments was due to the ease between uncle and nephew. It was clear that they were fond of each other, even from that brief exchange of words that Bilbo could not understand - but he guessed the worry and the reassurance they expressed.

Thus Bilbo felt an intruder, though for different reasons than the ones he had thought of at the beginning.

“I should probably...” he began to say, only to find himself pinned under Thorin’s ever so heavy gaze.

“You missed your lessons,” the prince pointed out. He cocked his head. “I didn’t think you would come tonight and my _irakdashat_ , my nephew...”

“I can go,” Bilbo said promptly, stepping back toward the door.

“Stay,” Thorin offered as hastily as the hobbit had spoken. Then he inhaled sharply and looked almost annoyed. “If you want, that’s what I mean.”

Bilbo nodded, though he did not know if he was just acknowledging Thorin’s offer or accepting it. But the dwarf decided to act as if he had accepted and put his hand on Fíli’s shoulder.

“Fíli son of Heptifili son of Víli, and son of Dís, daughter of Thráin, heir to Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór,” the dwarfling recited - and there again his likeness to Thorin flashed before Bilbo’s eyes. “At your service,” he said, with a solemn air which would have had Bilbo smiling if he had not feared humiliating the dwarfling.

“Bilbo Baggins at your service,” he replied instead, bowing as Fíli had done.

The dwarfling peered up at him with a thoughtful expression on his small face. Bilbo felt his own encouraging smile become a little tight under the scrutiny. He knew how to deal with hobbitlings, having been one of them, he knew their games and the notions stuffed in their heads, but he knew next to nothing about how dwarves were raised - not so long ago he had even believed that they were born from stone. Only recently had he become accustomed to the sight of the soft hair - like the useless plumage of a baby bird - which grew on the faces of their newborns. Fíli’s was golden, a shade darker than his hair.

“Are you a scribe, Master Baggins?” Fíli asked, at last.

“I - I don’t consider myself that,” Bilbo replied, “though I have been told that my calligraphy is very fine and you may not find anything better for miles in the Shire. I’ve also been called a _book-worm_ and I will admit that I love my books more than I love those who called me that. I enjoy writing, especially after a good meal and before my evening pipe.”

The dwarfling seemed to muse over what he had just heard, then his face brightened with pleasure.

“I think you’ll do, then. I’m going to be King under the Mountain one day, Master Baggins. That’s when irak’adad will be too old to go through his councils without falling asleep,” Fíli explained boldly. Bilbo did not dare to look at Thorin, lest he should give away his amusement at the dwarfling’s words. “I will have to choose my councillors and my officers. I will offer you to become my _Melekh’kirthâl_ and _Zidîn’gamulâl_.”

“He means the King’s writer and the Kingdom’s historian,” Thorin translated.

The dwarf sounded, Bilbo noticed, caught between mirth and embarrassment.

“Master Ori, Master Balin’s secretary, copied for me the first ten volumes of _Khazâd’gamul_ , our chronicles. It was uncle’s gift for my name-day,” Fíli informed Bilbo, “but they tell their stories in a boring way. When I will be King, I will have historians to tell my deeds in an interesting way. I think that I’ll be able to pay you a great sum in gold, Master Baggins. And you will have as many meals as you wish - uncle has told me that melekûnh eat seven times a day, and even if I’m not sure it’s true, you’ll have them.”

Bilbo heard Thorin clearing his throat and this time he could not help smiling. Fíli looked slightly hurt at that and clenched his hands in fists, but he relaxed when Bilbo frowned and assumed a business-like stance.

“I hope this will be put on paper in a regular contract,” he said, earning an eager nod from the dwarfling. “Yet I fear that there’s an obstacle to my employment - I do not know how to speak or write Khuzdul and I suppose that your chronicles are composed in that language.”

Fíli’s face fell at the remark. He bit his lower lip and turned to his uncle.

“Amad said that you were teaching him,” he pointed out, quite accusingly.

“He was - he _is_ ,” Bilbo intervened, before Thorin could even open his mouth. The prince looked at him with an unreadable expression. “But I’ve not been a very good pupil and we’ve not done too much.”

“I have never taught someone who isn’t a dwarf,” Thorin admitted, his eyes not leaving Bilbo’s.

“You are a stern teacher,” the hobbit offered. “And obstinate.”

“Let me tell you who is...”

“Nadad-amad, can Master Baggins learn with me tonight?” Fíli asked, stopping both Thorin and Bilbo from re-enacting their previous quarrel. “You said that it would be easier to translate the tale in Khuzdul knowing exactly what Master Baggins meant. Can he join us, please?”

Bilbo looked at Thorin for explanation, and the dwarf huffed.

“I asked Fíli to rewrite your tale in Khuzdul to practice his calligraphy and his grammar - we keep few books in Westron here in Erebor and I thought your tale would be a more interesting task than translating contracts or chronicles. I was checking his progress when you knocked at the door.” The dwarf scratched his beard, giving Bilbo what looked like an apologetic glance. “I probably said something about how it is difficult to find the right word to translate your Westron and...”

“Can he stay then?” Fíli asked again, impatiently.

“If he wants...” Thorin muttered.

“Yes - I mean, yes, obviously,” Bilbo answered, moving his gaze between the dwarfling and his uncle.

Thorin said nothing, but gestured Bilbo toward his chambers - Fíli was already jogging before them, barely containing his excitement at the change of plans for his lesson.

Soon Bilbo could not help being infected by the dwarfling’s enthusiasm, though he struggled to keep some composure for the sake of Thorin’s frown. He suspected that the dwarf had not made up his mind yet whether to be pleased or displeased with the situation, and thus he thought it wiser to tread carefully.

Oh, but it was difficult - what a shock was the sight of the bed! Bilbo had not even realised that the lesson would take place in Thorin’s bedroom and he was momentarily distracted by the idea of finding himself in such an intimate space. There Thorin’s presence was in the tangle of fur and wool covering the large bed, in the half-moon stain of water left by a pitcher on the dresser, in the garments piled up on a chair and the notes waiting on the writing desk.

Surely Fíli’s easy chattering did much to make the atmosphere more lively. After all it was but a dwarf bedroom, dark with wood and metal and stone, not bright and airy like Bilbo’s own in Bag End. Yet the room was warm and smelling from the fire burning red and gold. There was food - dark sweet bread with walnuts and honey, roasted apples covered in salt - to be accompanied with the light cider that even dwarflings were allowed to drink. There were cushions scattered on the thick rug before the fire, Fíli already sitting among them and beckoning Bilbo to do the same.

The hobbit stood uncertain until he saw Thorin himself sit down on the thick carpet, though less nimbly than Fíli had done. The dwarfling’s sense of etiquette seemed to have been satisfied by their formal introduction and his job proposal to Bilbo, and he now chatted freely with the hobbit. He showered Bilbo with questions about his tale, hungry for new details and adventures - and Bilbo complied, enriching his tale on the spot and weaving new stories and characters into it.

The prince was silent at first, as if he was measuring Bilbo’s behaviour toward his nephew. Then he began offering discreet cues to Bilbo’s imagination, helping the hobbit when his scarce knowledge of dwarf customs threatened to weaken his narrative.

Fíli was happy enough to listen with his mouth slightly open and his eyes growing rounder and brighter when the tale took a thrilling turn. It was Thorin who firmly steered their game of inventions toward something akin to a lesson, asking Fíli to take notes of Bilbo’s stories. Bilbo watched the dwarfling, lying on his stomach with his blond braids casually stuck in a ponytail, and noticed how easily he drew the angular shapes of the dwarf runes, spelling the words silently while he traced them.

“When I was little uncle always said that my runes looked like orc’s snot,” Fíli commented, shooting a lop-sided smile at Bilbo. “But I’ve got better.”

The hobbit startled, surprised that the dwarfling might have guessed his thoughts.

“You can still go back to orc’s snot if you don’t pay attention to what you’re doing,” Thorin reproached his nephew with ill-concealed fondness.

Fíli did the impossible then: he showed his tongue to Thorin, before ducking his head and turning back to his runes, perfectly ignorant of how Bilbo’s heart had skipped a beat at the display of confidence and familiarity between uncle and nephew. It was as if Fíli had reminded him that Thorin was no less real than Master Bofur or Bilbo himself - that he could be teased and loved as anyone else.

As to conceal such a thought - oh, too often did Bilbo wear his heart on his sleeve and he could already feel his cheeks growing warmer! - the hobbit tried to focus on the book in his lap.

“Well, now our hero has to face his greatest enemy, the pale lady-orc. How do you say _lady-orc_?” he asked Fíli lazily, more in the hope that no one had taken notice of his flustered state than for linguistic keenness.

“ _Rukhsinh_ ,” the dwarfling answered, looking briefly at his uncle as if to check the correctness of his answer.

“ _Rukhoshinh_ ,” Bilbo tried.

Fíli’s eyes grow large, then he burst into a laughter.

“That’s _scream-lady_ ,” Thorin explained swiftly, before turning to his nephew. “Fíli,” he said, to put an end to the dwarfling’s hilarity.

“No, it’s all right,” Bilbo reassured him, as soon as he realised that he was chuckling himself.

Fíli’s laugh did not offend him. It was, in fact, reassuring since the dwarfling was laughing at his mistake and not at Bilbo. It was far better than Thorin’s displeasure in his errors or the scornful mockery he got from other dwarves. Suddenly Bilbo felt more confident and at ease, and marvelled at how he and Thorin had never thought before to laugh at his mistakes. He took a glance at Thorin, wondering if the prince was thinking the same thing.

“I fear I have called my sister _rukhoshinh_ more than a couple of times,” the prince said.

He was not looking at Bilbo, but something had shifted in his tone and the hobbit felt that Thorin was allowing himself to relax.

“I wonder what she would think if she knew you’re sharing this piece of information with me,” Bilbo replied, perfectly aware that he had not earned Lady Dís’s favour yet.

Thorin opened his mouth to answer, but Fíli preceded him.

“Amad says that you’ll give uncle grey hair,” the dwarfling declared in the light-hearted, careless tone of one who has not thought twice before speaking.

In an unexpectedly swift movement Thorin clasped his hand over his nephew’s lips, while his own mouth hung open in dismay. The picture nephew and uncle made then was so hilarious that Bilbo could not help a small laugh.

“Does she,” Bilbo commented, amused rather than annoyed. Thorin let Fíli go, but still looked at the hobbit as if he was expecting Bilbo to throw some sort of tantrum - _oh, the silliness of dwarves!_ “It’s silly indeed,” Bilbo added, feeling slightly mischievious and willing to tease Thorin, “since I am sure to have seen the same grey locks when your uncle trampled upon my garden for the first time. Should we keep count of each grey hair?”

They were sitting quite close to one another, all three gathered in a small circle around the book. Thus it took Bilbo but little effort to reach out to touch Thorin’s hair. He had not properly thought about it. He was just talking about the grey hair in his dark mane and he had instinctively felt the urge to touch them. He would not have done it in other circumstances, but he had felt playful and they were sitting so close that his fingers had brushed over a silver strand before he could even think.

Thorin went rigid and Fíli sucked in a breath.

 _Oh my_ , Bilbo thought. He immediately took his hand away, guessing that he had done something wrong.

“I...apologise?” he said, confused.

He knew that dwarves were quite physical and loved to express their pleasure and displeasure through their bodies in a shockingly brazen way. They even brawled just for the delight of it, they clasped arms and slapped backs, they favoured bear-like hugs and head-butting each other. Thorin was less forward than others - Bilbo had learned as much, yet it was strange to see him so affected by such a simple touch.

“Among Khazâd,” Thorin began, but he had to clear his throat before going on, “touching one’s hair or beard is either a great offence or a display of affection.”

 _Oh_.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” Bilbo said quickly. “I should have thought...what with your braids and beads, and the importance beards have in your eyes...”

“You’re not bound to the same customs,” Thorin offered, though he still looked bewildered.

Bilbo would have never thought that dwarves might be mystified by such a simple, friendly touch. Among hobbits touching another’s hair was not a big deal. Hobbitlings’ hair always ended up with their curls mussed and tugged by their parents, aunts, and grandparents; hobbit lasses braided one another’s hair and made flower crowns to wear for parties and dances; older folks would pat the head of anyone they could reach, and no one would really pay attention to it.

Bilbo thought that Thorin would not have been more surprised if he had kissed him.

He blushed when he realised what a thought had come up to his mind. He bit his tongue and tried to remember how they had ended up here, cocooned in embarrassment.

“He’s falling asleep,” Thorin whispered suddenly. Bilbo blinked, then his eyes fell on Fíli who was leaning against his uncle’s arm and struggling to keep his eyelids open. The dwarfling yawned and muttered something unintelligible in Khuzdul. “I should carry him to his room,” Thorin added.

There was a question quivering beneath his words and Bilbo could not figure out what it was.

“I’d better go then.”

“You should come back,” Thorin said gruffly. “Tomorrow. For your lesson.”

Bilbo could not help it - the smile was on his lips before he could even think. And he could not really take it back, since Thorin’s mouth twitched in response. It was one of those small, fleeting smiles which were more in Thorin’s eyes than on his lips; they kindled the deep blue of his irises, conferring unexpected expressivity to that too-often unreadable face of his. Bilbo had begun - he could not say _when_ \- to consider those smiles quite beautiful to witness.

Later in his bed, the hobbit thought about how the smile had lasted a little longer when he had said _yes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**
> 
>  
> 
>  _Azaghâl_ : warrior
> 
>  _Gimlinh_ : star-lady; used as a dwarvish name for Varda.
> 
>  _Izgharrukidi_ : “she will judge”; used as an epithet for Varda, who is here considered as the goddess of justice.
> 
>  _Ma-gurd; huzûgh zatâmnâramâ. Tank_ : “Do not fear; we were exchanging opinions. Come.”
> 
>  _Melekh’kirthâl_ : King’s writer
> 
>  _Nadad-amad? Kluta hugûlh; achùshuma_ : “Uncle? I heard the shouts; I worried.”
> 
>  _Rukhoshinh_ : scream-lady
> 
>  _Rukhsinh_ : lady-orc
> 
>  _Thatrûna_ : Varda
> 
>  _Zidîn’gamulâl_ : Kingdom’s historian


	10. Dushel

“ _Dushul’urs_ , _Azugâl ashurun ahykhûndaki. Tumûnûnh tursaki._ ”

Bilbo only stared while Thorin sighed in a way his pupil found annoyingly melodramatic.

“It’s quite a simple statement, but it will help you. I’m not asking you to repeat it all the time. I’m going to give you lessons in grammar and teach you new words, but if you will take care to practice this little turn of words every day, your pronunciation will improve.”

“It seems a tongue-twister,” Bilbo muttered.

“There’s no tongue-twisting in Khuzdul. Actually, you should pay more attention to how your tongue moves in your mouth while you’re speaking Khuzdul. You sweeten sounds which should be harsher or mute.”

Bilbo looked quite intently at the parchment where the dwarf had traced a bunch of runes.

_Let’s start with your name_ , he had said when Thorin had decided to give him some sample of calligraphy. In truth he was already familiar with the runes in Thorin’s name, but he had been taken by this fancy of having something written in the prince’s hand. Big, rough hands - yet Thorin held the quill with some grace and Bilbo could not help brushing his thumb on the parchment, absent-mindedly.

In fact it was not the thought of Thorin’s calligraphic skills distracting Bilbo - he just wished to hide the faint blush he felt on his cheeks. It was childish to get embarrassed at Thorin’s talk of tongues and Bilbo did not want to let the prince think him silly like a fauntling, especially since the dwarf was taking quite seriously the new course of their lessons.

Not only had Thorin agreed to revise his methods and indulge Bilbo with less memorising and more actual teaching on dwarf culture in general, but they had also moved the lessons to Thorin’s bedroom. Fíli was not there though and Bilbo felt more conscious of the width of the bed, the rustle of Thorin’s tunic, the smell of dark grapes and burning wood. There was nothing voluptuous about it. Thorin’s sombre, serious nature did not admit any suggestion of debauchery in his quarters. On the contrary, his room looked like Bilbo would have expected from someone so devoted to his duty; official papers piled on the desk, food and drink to sustain the prince while he worked and pondered - it looked a little barren, a place to eat, work, and sleep.

Still Bilbo blushed and avoided the prince’s eyes.

“I have promised to be more patient,” Thorin said, leaning toward Bilbo and sliding his large hand over the hobbit’s smaller one. Bilbo did his best not to flinch or clear his throat, though the roughness of Thorin’s fingertips on his knuckles was unexpected and yet not unwelcome. “But you must be patient too, and indulge me here and there. Come now, repeat after me word by word and I will help you adjust your pronunciation. For example _azugâl_...”

Then the warm weight of Thorin’s hand was gone and Bilbo found his voice.

“Azugal.”

“It’s more _azugâl_ ,” Thorin corrected him, and it was indeed quite different from what had just left Bilbo’s mouth. Yet it was difficult to point out which trick could allow Bilbo to pronounce the word in the same way. It was so unfamiliar that he could not make its sounds out, like a shape never seen before and for which he had no words. “ _Azugâl_. The sound is not so...open. Look at me.”

Bilbo swallowed, but did as he was told.

“I’m looking,” he said feebly, trying not to blink too much.

“Look how my lips move around the word: _azugâl_. The sound must be more stifled, lower at the end. It’s not the same sound at the beginning: _a-zu-gâl_.”

Bilbo had looked at the dwarf’s mouth before, but it had been all about not being caught in the act. And now Thorin was asking him to stare at his mouth while he spoke. He did it because he was too shy to do otherwise and let his weakness show, but soon enough he realised he had not really heard a single word. He had just observed the way Thorin’s lips moved. The dwarf had a thin mouth, as if it had been created to go with his sharp, big nose; it was not soft - nothing about Thorin looked soft - and there was the dark beard surrounding it, making the lips appear pinker.

“It means _dragon_ , doesn’t it?” Bilbo inquired, before Thorin could ask him again to stare at his mouth.

“How do...right, you heard it from Fíli,” the dwarf nodded in understanding.

“What about the rest? I’d like to know what I’m saying.”

“I apologise,” Thorin offered gruffly. “It’s a line from _Khazâd’gamul_ , our historic poem. In Westron it would be: _Oh fire of darkness, the dragon tore everyone with his teeth and burnt Dale_.”

“Great,” Bilbo muttered under his breath. Then, catching sight of Thorin’s frown, he sighed. It was not a surprise that even Fíli had found those books quite unappealing if that was the general idea of _poetry_ Khazâd had. “Don’t you find it a little... _impractical_?” Bilbo asked the prince, as tactfully as possible. “I wonder which sort of occasion may call for such a statement, unless I am to be examined about Erebor’s history.”

Thorin’s cheeks grew darker.

“I didn’t think about its meaning,” he explained, visibly put off by Bilbo’s comment. “It includes the sort of sounds you should practice over, but surely I can find something else for you...” and while saying this he was already turning the pages of the _Khazâd’gamul_ volume.

“It’s fine,” Bilbo said. He thought of putting his hands over Thorin’s to stop his shuffling, but he could not do it. So he awkwardly patted the carpet, almost but quite not touching the dwarf’s hands. “It’s fine,” Bilbo repeated, a little breathlessly. “I trust your judgement on it. Only...I feared it might bother you. You know, repeating over and over what the dragon...”

“You fear that you would put salt on an open wound?” Thorin inquired, looking baffled at first and then amused. “You wouldn’t. The dragon is part of Erebor’s history. It’s in our chronicles, remembered by those old enough and taught to the younger generation. Do you think that my personal history may get in the way of our lessons? Or do you suggest that I should forget, rather than being reminded of that day? I _must_ remember, and I shall. Do you find it strange?”

“Few hobbits have a penchant for history,” Bilbo admitted. “Records are not so carefully kept, and most of our history is but a tale told before the fire when the nights are longest and there’s no fresh gossip. Most hobbits are concerned with stories of their relatives and neighbours, but hardly with what happens beyond walking-distance and they seldom walk farther than the Brandywine or Michel Delving.” Bilbo made a pause, then shrugged. “Still I suppose that one has to _choose_ to remember sometimes - you need your memories to grow up. I like to write down what happens to me, because I may need the memory of a day when I was courageous or happy - then I shall strive to be like that again; or miserable and wicked - then I shall strive to be different.”

“Could you ever be _wicked_?” Thorin asked, a half-smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

“I’m sure you thought me so more than once,” the hobbit replied.

“Maybe, when you question everything I do and say,” Thorin agreed. “Then I think that you must be some wicked spirit sent by my ancestors to torment me with your sense of propriety. But when you’re worried that some words might hurt me with the memory of the dragon and its cruelty, I think that you possess a kind nature indeed, child of the West.”

“Now you’re teasing me,” Bilbo murmured.

Thorin smiled vaguely, but neither admitted nor denied it.

“Now, don’t get too distracted. Let me hear how you pronounce this word instead: _dushel_.”

Bilbo had to suppress a shiver, Thorin’s voice had fallen even deeper to follow the _u_ , and then it had become velvet and water on the second syllable. _Stop it_ , Bilbo said to himself, he was there to learn Khuzdul, not to indulge in the pleasure of Thorin’s voice. Oh, he _did_ appreciate the prince’s timbre. Most dwarves had booming voices, as if they had been made to bellow from the depths of tunnels and mines, but Thorin’s could not be detached from the thought of the dwarf’s broad chest and the smell of metal and leather he carried with him.   

“Dushel,” the hobbit breathed out, trying to get a grip on his thoughts.

“Not bad,” Thorin conceded, “though you have to go deeper. You still keep your lips too open.”

Bilbo stiffened as soon as the dwarf’s gaze slipped down to his lips. If he had thought that being asked to look at Thorin’s mouth was bad, this was worse. He was tempted to purse his lips, but it would have felt like giving some sort of show while Thorin was watching.

“Dushel?” Bilbo repeated uncertain.

“You can go a little deeper,” the dwarf encouraged him. “It’s our word for _darkness_. It must be deep and black, yet smooth like a serpent’s skin. While azugâl is not a common word in our history, you may find _dushel_ repeated over and over - talking of the places where mithril and silver are to be found, of the long nights spent in the wilderness during the great migration, of the death coming upon our warriors and staring back at them from the eyes of our enemies...”

Again Bilbo felt that peculiar warmth blossoming in his chest at the sound of Thorin’s voice. The dwarf was hardly a poet, yet he could be unexpectedly poetic in his own way; not a _hobbit_ way, never - but Bilbo found that he did not really mind.

“Dushel,” he said, trying to remember how it had sounded on Thorin’s lips.

“Good,” Thorin admitted, “but you can do better. Now, on the first sound...try just that.”

“Du,” Bilbo spluttered, feeling the prince’s eyes leaving his own. “Du,” he said, but it came out almost tremulous, since Thorin’s gaze was now firmly planted on his mouth.

_Sweet Yavanna_ , did he not suspect how self-conscious Bilbo was growing under his gaze? If Thorin had not worn such a detached, utterly _teacher-y_ expression on his face, Bilbo would have thought that the dwarf was set on teasing him.  

But no, this was simply Thorin teaching him Khuzdul. Still, the hobbit had to fight not to flinch when Thorin’s big hand cupped his chin. He felt the rough fingertips pressed onto his jaw and his soft cheek yielded at the touch; he heard the round sound of his own mute gasp. Thorin chuckled at his surprise, but he did not dwell on the hobbit’s embarrassment, nor did he take away his hand.

“Keep your mouth a little more closed this time. Here, try again.”

“Dushel,” Bilbo murmured.

He was actually surprised at being able to talk despite the bizarre pose they were in, with Thorin almost looming over him, and holding his chin in his hand as - well, as _not quite a friend but almost something else entirely_ \- would have done.

“Dushel,” Bilbo breathed, for want of something better to say.

It sounded husky. A rasp rather than a word, the sound caught in the web of Thorin’s touch, trapped under the warm weight of his large hand.

“There,” the dwarf commented. “This was good.”

His hand fell away, leaving Bilbo’s skin prickling and burning and his heart yearning. For what Bilbo could not tell, not even to himself. His desire was still shrouded in darkness but for a few bright details - a certain shade of blue, a deeper note, the scent of metal and flushed skin.

_Dushel_ , yes.

It was Bilbo’s path into the world of dwarves. Shadow upon shadow, until his own thoughts seemed unclear and mysterious, his heart an unfamiliar land. _This comes from living among dwarves_ Bilbo thought. Wasn’t Erebor itself barely wrenched out of the dark depths of the Mountain?

He glanced at Thorin while the dwarf was moving on to another line from the _Khazâd’gamul_. Too sharp his nose, too long his hair; too broad, too hairy, _too dwarf_. Still.

_Dushel_ , indeed.  

 

*

 

Darkness. _Dushel_.

Once Gandalf had said something about darkness - _what was it? Oh, yes_. It was that bit about darkness not being the mere absence of light. At the time Gandalf had sounded slightly tipsy, but Bilbo understood now - darkness was very much _there_ , all around him. It did not feel like an absence; it had weight and smell, and it was closing upon him, thicker than air.

Still he took another step. At the beginning he had tried to keep count of his steps, but he had lost it along the way, together with his sense of time. He might have been walking for some hours or a few moments. It was hard to tell when he could no longer see where he had come from, nor was he able to catch any glimpse of where he was going. He knew nothing but the darkness upon him, and the walls - cold and rough under the palms of his hands; he feared that if he did not keep touching the walls he would lose even that feeble perception of space they granted him.

_It’s just an air shaft, no forks. You have just to keep walking_. Easy for them to say, who were not walking into darkness.

Yet he had volunteered for this.

“I’ll go,” he had said.

His voice should not have sounded so firm and reasonable. It had been such a silly thing to say, but he had not trembled then. Oh, the look on Thorin’s face! _That_ had been worthy of his foolish mouth. The dwarf had looked at him as if he had just sprouted a second head, and Bilbo had revelled in the thought of having rendered Thorin speechless.

“What?” Thorin had said at last, the question raw and choked. “No,” he had added swiftly, shaking his head and silencing the other voices raising around them with an abrupt gesture. “Not _you_. You...you’re afraid of heights.”

“I know it very well, thank you,” Bilbo had replied, feeling drunk on his own recklessness.

Thorin’s stupefied horror at his volunteering had encouraged Bilbo rather than held him back. And thus the hobbit had found himself led to the air shaft by a bunch of dwarves barking instructions and warnings, pushing a lantern in his hands, and then shoving him into the tunnel. Only Thorin had not taken any part in it. He had been strangely silent, as if it had been too much for him to cope with - this knowing that the precious life of his nephew was in the hands of a hobbit. He had not spoken to Bilbo, he had not had any advice for him, he had not even touched him as others had done, squeezing his shoulder or patting his back to hearten him. Thorin had just stood there, watching and listening with his shoulders sagged under an invisible weight.

But even that image of the prince was fading away in the darkness surrounding Bilbo. He now wished he had never consented to visiting the mines. How could the idea of a dark, damp, dangerous place have roused his interest? Still he had been eager when Fíli had pleaded with his uncle.

“Can I show Master Baggins the mines?” Fíli had asked a couple of days earlier.

“I am not sure that Master Baggins...” Thorin had begun, glancing at Bilbo as if to check the correctness of his assumption - _mines are no place for hobbits_.

Bilbo had felt compelled to contradict him - to _surprise_ him. And, in truth, he had truly longed to see the Erebor mines, that dark heart from which the Kingdom under the Mountain had shaped its wealth as well as its society and culture.

He had but some confused ideas made up from his books, and from his talks with Master Bofur and Thorin himself. Ideas about lanterns swinging among the shadows and hammers beating in darkness, a maze of tunnels and shafts, and the great wheels and gears whining under the strain of rocks and water. Still his mind could not fully conjure the reality of such a place, and thus he had felt thoroughly thrilled.

“I would really like to see the mines,” he had declared without a second thought, and both uncle and nephew had looked pleased by his answer.

So Thorin had asked Balin to rearrange his meetings, and even lady Dís had consented to their plan - though with ill-grace, to remind Bilbo that he was no favourite of hers. But the princess’ coldness had been soon forgotten in favour of his excitement. It had been impossible for Bilbo to distinguish between his pleasure for the visit itself, and the delight he took in having prince Thorin himself as a guide for the day.

It was strange, in truth, that Bilbo had grown to value the prince’s company so much. Thorin lacked many of the qualities Bilbo valued and some of his traits were positively irksome. He was not half as funny as Master Bofur, and sometimes there was a heavy meaningfulness about everything Thorin did and thought. He was far too serious by hobbit standards, and too narrow-minded by Bilbo’s.

Yet, while they had been walking side by side (Thorin describing the purpose of the some enormous apparatus - a monster made from iron and wood, turning and screeching from its nest of rocks) Bilbo had felt happiness blow through his bones and his heart so light that it could have flown out of his chest. He had said nothing about it to Thorin and let the dwarf keep on with his tales of the first engineers who had devised the huge machines to hammer their way into the mountain.

While the prince had been drawing Bilbo’s attention to the wonders of dwarf mining expertise, Fíli had been walking at Dwalin’s side - such a formidable companion made the dwarfling look younger and smaller, but Bilbo had never seen Dwalin so playful and benign. Slapping each other’s arms and laughing broadly, Dwalin and Fíli had led the way for most of the visit, apparently unconcerned about the hobbit and Thorin falling behind little by little. There had been so much Bilbo wanted to know about the mines and the dwarf had indulged his curiosity as well as his own vanity in his kin’s achievements.

This was the reason why they had been too far from Fíli to protect him.

It had all started with the piercing sound of the huge iron cogwheel slipping out of place. A moment before Thorin had been explaining to Bilbo that the device - mounted in the wall stone of the main, gigantic mine pit - served the purpose of operating the lift system which carried the miner teams up and down the pit. Suddenly the air had been filled with splinters of rock and burning sparks, and Bilbo had seen this great, toothed thing slicing his way toward them. Then he had been pulled down, thrown on the hard ground, and he had felt his breath crushed out of his lungs.

Only later had he realised that the weight had been Thorin’s and that the dwarf had shielded him with his own body. They had been lucky, having found some shelter in an empty drain. Thus they had been mostly untouched by the collapse, except for some debris - mainly dust - greying their coats and hair. Bilbo had felt nauseous and it had taken him a while to remember how to breathe properly, while Thorin had broken one or two of his fingers when he had slammed his hand on the rock to soften their fall - but they could have had much worse. While the dust settled again, victims had been discovered: a miner had fell into the pit, another had been smashed under the cogwheel, others had been hurt by the fragments of rock and metal sent flying by the collapse.

Bilbo had been hauled to his feet by Thorin, only to double over in a fit of coughing when he had tried to recover his breath. He had felt the vibration of the prince’s voice close to his right ear and the rising and falling of Thorin’s large chest in ragged, quick breaths. He had guessed, rather than understood, Thorin’s attempts to reassure him. He had closed his fingers on the dwarf’s fur-trimmed coat and looked up trying to get a _thank you_ out of his dry lips, but Thorin’s eyes had already turned away.

A moment later the prince had wrenched himself from Bilbo’s hold.   

“Fíli!” he had bellowed, covering all the screams and voices. “Fíli!”

Deprived of Thorin’s support and still confused about what had happened, Bilbo had collapsed again on his knees. He had felt his skin heavy with grime and cold sweat, and there had been some blood in his mouth from when he had bitten his tongue at the impact with the ground. Yet he had known, even then, that Thorin’s swift reaction had spared him worse. He was almost unharmed and he could have been dead; others would be by the end of the day, if their screams were anything to go by.

“Dwalin, abbad!” Thorin had yelled, as soon as the warrior had appeared at their side. Bilbo had seen Thorin put his hands on Dwalin’s shoulder and then shake him like a rag doll. “Fíli? Fíli?” Thorin had asked feverishly and Dwalin had not tried to wipe the blood dripping on his eyelids from the gash on his forehead.

“Birashagammi...” Dwalin had replied, and Bilbo knew what that word stood for - _I’m sorry_.

Thorin had almost thrown Dwalin to the ground. Then he had moved on, toward the point where Fíli and Dwalin had been walking before the accident. In a rush of adrenaline, Bilbo had leapt to his feet, reached Dwalin and claimed the dwarf’s attention.

“Where is he? Where is Fíli?”

“He was with me. Then...I lost him. I don’t know,” Dwalin had muttered, still stupefied. Then he had shaken his head as if clearing his thoughts, and regained some of that cold blood which had probably helped him countless times in battle. “Come Master Baggins, I’ll show you. We have to cover the area, look for him. There are crevices and hollows. He may have fallen there.”

“I think his fingers are broken. Thorin’s, I mean,” Bilbo had said. Dwalin had laughed a hollow laugh.

“Not his fingers I’m worried about,” he had replied grimly, before starting to shout Fíli’s name.

Soon many had been doing the same. Thorin had given orders to take care of the wounded and transport them to the infirmary, and then gathered those who were unharmed to help with his search. Fíli’s name had rung up and down the pit, torches had dispelled the shadows of clefts and cavities, the wreckage had been cleared to make sure that the young prince had not been trapped under a beam or a rock slab.

Bilbo had kept glancing at Thorin, who had been running and shouting, his voice increasingly raw and his skin pale with fury and fear under the stripes of dust mixed with blood and sweat. The prince had looked indifferent to the pain of his broken fingers, and when Bilbo had tried to have a look at them Thorin had refused him with such an expression on his face that the hobbit had cringed in fear.

“Do not provoke him,” Dwalin had admonished Bilbo, as soon as Thorin had lumbered away from them. “He cannot stop until Fíli is found.”

“What if...” Bilbo had begun, but he had felt ashamed at his own thoughts.

It had been then that they had heard someone cry:

“Here, I think he’s here!”

There had been a rush toward the point where the miner stood, but the hobbit had seen nothing - too many dwarves blocking his view. Neither had he heard anything, though one dwarf at his side had said:

“I can hear him. He calls for his uncle the prince! He must have fallen through the crevice to the new shaft they have been digging on the eighth level.”

“What a lucky lad,” another had commented. “He could have fallen for days down the pit.”

“Do you call _that_ lucky? The elevator is broken and it will take a while to fix the damage. The eighth level is completely out of reach, and no one is there since they decided to give priority to the maintenance works before the first snow,” a dwarf - whose face was black and anonymous with smoke and soot - had said. “The lad is alone down there, and I don’t like that one bit.”

“At least he has made it alive so far,” another had grunted, keeping his right hand pressed to his chest. Bilbo had seen blood glimmering on the dwarf’s  tunic and beard. “Storgar was not so lucky.”

“Hush now, the lad is still talking. He has hurt his leg, he cannot go anywhere on his own,” an engineer had thundered. “A torch, who has a torch?”

“What does he need a torch for?” the dwarf with the blood-stained tunic had hissed. “No light can reach the lad down there.”

“Someone will have to go. Take him out of there.”

“Haven’t you heard? There’s no way to reach the eighth level. And the crevice the lad has fallen through is too narrow.”

“Shut your mouths,” an older dwarf with a snow-white beard had scolded the miners, before turning back to Thorin who was crouched by the fissure listening for Fíli’s voice. “There’s a way, Your Highness. I think - I _know_ there’s a way to the shaft on the eighth level. I worked there, Your Highness. It communicates with another shaft on the seventh level. If someone goes through it, he may reach the little prince.”

“Do you speak the truth, gamil’adad?” Thorin had asked, and Bilbo had been surprised by how detached the prince’s voice had sounded - as if he had carefully kept any hope out of it.

“I do. Only there’s this difficulty...”

“What difficulty?”

“We dig the shafts large enough for a dwarf to walk through them. But then we wall their entrance up leaving only a smaller passage for the air, so they cannot be used as a hiding place or secondary route. We will have to break through the boulders to enlarge the passage and get someone down the shaft.”

“We can do it, Your Highness. We’ll help,” one young miner had stuttered, among the gruff cheers of his companions.

Bilbo had then felt the urge to be physically near Thorin. He had wanted to touch his hand and run his thumb on the whitened knuckles. He had thought of the impossibility of Thorin leaning onto him, of the dear weight which might have rested for a moment upon his shoulder if only Thorin had allowed himself to be consoled and comforted. He had never been so keen to be of some service to Thorin like then, and the need to protect the dwarf and shield him from sorrow had been so intense it was painful.

“I’m smaller than any of you,” Bilbo had pointed out as soon as a small passage into the shaft had been cleared. He had addressed himself to the miners, since the prince had seemed so averse to the whole idea. “You said that it would take more time to widen the passage and Fíli may be hurt down there. I can get into the shaft right now and reach him, then we will walk to the other end of the shaft and...” he had stopped then, feeling his throat go dry at the mere thought of what was waiting for him after having found the dwarfling. He had taken a deep breath.  “Only I would prefer to leave my coat here - I wouldn’t like to have it ruined.”

Several pairs of eyes had been glued to his face, as if the dwarves had not really noticed him until then. Dwalin had broken the silence.

“I’ll take your coat, Master Baggins,” he had grunted.

Bilbo had handed his coat to Dwalin and only then had the dwarves realised that he was perfectly serious. They had begun to offer their advice, a rope, and a lantern. But they had warned him to spare the lantern for the last part.

“The shaft will be dark, Master Hobbit,” the oldest miner had said. “But you won’t lose your way, it runs straight to the other shaft, the one where the lad should be. Just keep walking and you’ll find a spiral staircase. Use your lantern there to avoid breaking your neck, go down and find the little prince. Then you’ll have to help him reach the other end of the shaft, where...”

“...where there’s a ledge running round the pit, I know, I know,” Bilbo had interrupted him, shuddering.

“Use your lantern there. We will need to see where you are to lower a rope. Then we will lift you two out of the pit.”

He should have asked more questions. _What if I can’t reach Fíli?_ _What if I’m not strong enough to help him walk to the ledge? What if the ledge isn’t even there?_ And more ifs, the sort of possibilities a gentle-hobbit is not used to. _I do not know a single thing about rescuing_ Bilbo was thinking in the dark. He had never saved anyone - hobbits are made to save the harvest from a bad winter, to save their grandmother’s embroidered handkerchiefs from turning yellow, to save time for another dance before the party’s end. But there ends their boldness.

Still Bilbo did not stop. He kept walking, resisting the urge to light up his lantern. At last he reached the spiral staircase leading down to the shaft on the eighth level. It was less a staircase and more a sort of path a mountain goat would have been perfectly able to dance upon. But Bilbo was no mountain goat and felt a shiver running up his spine when he took a look at the roughly outlined steps descending into darkness. He had lit his lantern by then; the light bounced off the steps, then died in the shadows.

Again, something stirred in Bilbo’s chest - pity for Fíli’s fate, desire to prove himself, and what others would have called _courage_. Bilbo thought but of the risk of breaking his neck, still he went down, hoping that his feet would be steadier than his heart. It was a slow descent, with the lantern rattling against the rocks and sudden gushes of air freezing his sweating nape.

When the steps ended and he found himself in the other tunnel, he had to take some moments to recover from the surprise of having made it so far. _Not bad, Master Baggins,_ he said to himself with shy pride. But he did not linger for long. He put out the light with reluctance and called for Fíli. While the echo of his voice travelled down the shaft, Bilbo realised that he was not so sure about the direction he had to take. He might have reached the right level, but the tunnel continued in two opposite directions. Fíli was probably closer to the pit - and Bilbo could guess in which direction the pit was judging from the air current, but there was still a chance that Fíli had fallen elsewhere and...

“Stop it,” Bilbo said aloud. “I’ll try my luck.”

The shaft’s walls agreed with him, repeating the word _luck_ for a long while after Bilbo had resumed his walking down the tunnel. He moved toward the pit - or at least where he supposed the pit was. And then he heard it - Fíli’s breathless, rasping sobs drumming against the rocks. Bilbo barely kept himself from running toward the sound; instead he moved cautiously, prodding the ground and the walls, and calling for Fíli.

“Nadad-amad? _Nadad-amad?_ ” Fíli’s voice came at last, wavering and cautious.

“No, it’s me,” Bilbo blurted out, “Bilbo Baggins.”

With slippery fingers, Bilbo kindled the lantern. He took a deep breath when the lantern-light showed him the dwarfling sitting on the ground, slouched against the shaft’s wall. The hobbit instinctively looked for injuries and blood, and was relieved to find little of both. Fíli was badly scratched and his clothes were torn and blackened, but he looked unexpectedly well for someone who had gone through such a fall.

He kneeled on the ground, and Fíli’s hands immediately closed on his.

“Master Baggins, I hurt my leg,” the dwarfling confessed, almost shamefully.

Bilbo took in the way Fíli was trying to rub away the traces of tears from his face, so he pretended to examine his leg so as to give the dwarfling some time to compose himself. He would not deprive Fíli of his pride in being brave and reasonable, even if he would have liked to hug the dwarfling and have a little cry himself. Fíli’s ankle was probably sprained, but there were no lacerations. Bilbo had seen worse that time when Master Holman had fallen from the ladder while he was repairing one of Bag End’s chimneys.

“You dwarves are really made of tougher stuff,” Bilbo commented, patting Fíli’s shoulder. “I would look like a scrambled egg in your place. But look at you - your uncle will be pleased.”

“Is uncle angry?” the dwarfling asked, biting his lower lip.

“Angry with worry, yes,” the hobbit huffed. “So, let’s get you back to him or he will have a fit before evening. Now I’m going to put off the light, then I’ll help you get on your feet. Hold onto me and we may reach the other end of the shaft.”

“You’ve lost the buttons of your waistcoat,” Fíli said, one moment before the light went out.

Bilbo startled and patted his waistcoat to check.

“Indeed!” he exclaimed, feeling the absence of the buttons under his fingers. “I lost them,” he said.

A wave of regret came upon him. The buttons had probably been lost for a while, since the moment when he had squeezed himself into the narrowest breach opened by the miners to reach the shaft. He remembered that he had almost thought the passage too narrow, even for him. He had held his breath and tried to find something to grasp, and a way to slip in. He had certainly waggled his feet in some improper way while he had been trying to fit his plump body into the hole. His waistcoat’s buttons had been popped out then, he guessed, and he would never see them again.

_What a pity_ \- they were good brass buttons, with small acorns upon them. They might not have been very precious, not even a family heirloom, still Bilbo had loved them and they went well with his yellow waistcoat embroidered with leaves (the only one still in good condition after his journey). He had wanted to look respectable and nice - not that he wanted anything from Thorin, not in terms of compliments or...no, just plain, ordinary, inconsequential _looking nice_.

“Master Baggins?”

“Yes, Fíli. Now we can go.”

Their progress was inevitably slow, but it was progress nonetheless. The closer they got to the pit, the stronger the air current blew. It was a relief after the stale air of the abandoned shaft, and Bilbo would have allowed himself to feel a little more hopeful had not been for the thought of the ledge they would soon reach. He did his best to hide his fear from Fíli though, since the dwarfling was being so brave in stifling his pained moans. Hopping on a single leg with his arms around Bilbo’s waist, Fíli was exerting himself to the point of being increasingly pale and breathless. Bilbo had even tried to lift the dwarfling, but he was not strong enough for that. He could only let Fíli lean as much as possible on him and take care that he would not fall.

At last they made it to the end of the shaft. Fortunately, as the old miner had promised, that passage was not blocked by any grid. And the ledge was there all right - not that the sight of such a narrow ribbon of rocks could bring any relief to the hobbit’s fears. He had to swallow several times before being able to speak.

“We have to move on, they cannot lower any rope here,” he explained, recalling the miners’ words.

If only they reached a little further down the ledge, they would find themselves in the best position to be rescued. They would lower some harnesses and ropes, and then they would be lifted out of the pit.

Bilbo’s stomach felt dreadfully hollow. _Do not faint Bilbo Baggins, don’t you dare!_

He felt Fíli’s scratched hand find his and hold fast. He knew that the dwarfling was probably looking for some reassurance - dwarves might be used to heights, but the pit descending into the Mountain’s bowels was bound to scare anyone out of their wits. Nonetheless, Bilbo felt that Fíli’s hand was a greater comfort to him than his was to the dwarfling, and resolved to go on.

He knew that it would take hours to break a larger passage into the first shaft. No one would come to their aid any time soon; on the other hand it was unthinkable to lift Fíli up the spiral staircase, not with his sprained ankle. The only way out was the pit and the walk over the great precipice. They could wait no longer - there was no time for Bilbo to convince his knees not to tremble; they could not do without the oil for the lantern, and darkness would be their worst enemy on the ledge.

Thus Bilbo forced himself out of the shaft. The ledge was but a few feet lower than the shaft’s end - still, what a ghastly feeling to have one’s feet dangling mid-air! The small jump Bilbo had to perform was enough to make his heart race, and helping Fíli do the same was hardly a better experience. But they managed well enough - _well enough_ being Bilbo neither falling nor fainting in the process.

The ledge was just large enough for them to walk side by side, with Fíli leaning on the hobbit more and more with every step as the exhaustion and the pain took their toll on the dwarfling. Bilbo was forced to walk closer to the abyss. If he did not feel the effort of carrying Fíli at first, it was because he was too focused on the strain of keeping his gaze straight ahead - glancing down, he knew, would have been his undoing. _It’s not more dangerous than walking elsewhere_ , he reminded himself, recycling the words Thorin had thrown to him when he had convinced him to take a walk on the battlements.

It had been after one of their last lessons, when Bilbo had lamented the need for some fresh air to ease the heaviness of his head after so much learning and Thorin had invited him to take a walk. It had been pleasant enough, though they had not talked. Thorin had adapted his stride to the hobbit’s pace and Bilbo had felt peculiarly sated in their comfortable silence. The hobbit’s common revulsion for heights had ruined the moment when they had come too near the battlement’s parapet.

“What is this?” Thorin had asked, noticing Bilbo jerking away from the crenels looking over Dale.

“Heights. I - we hobbits don’t like them,” Bilbo had explained, feeling his cheeks grew red for another reason than the cold, harsh wind sweeping the battlements. “I mean, nasty things can happen when you’re so far from the ground.”

The need to explain his fear - to make it understood and accepted - had made Bilbo feel slightly disgusted with himself. He had never thought of making excuses for himself before his fellow hobbits. First, in this case his kin would have understood  (indeed no hobbit loves being too far from the ground); second, Bilbo had always been too proud to question their scorn aloud, let alone try to change their minds. But Thorin compelled him to such shameful attempts, as if Bilbo had been too eager to please him - the fact that this was exactly what Thorin had thought of him on their first acquaintance only worsened Bilbo’s feeling about it.

“You faint-hearted thing,” Thorin had commented. “It’s no more dangerous than walking elsewhere.”

Then he had discretely steered their walk to avoid lingering too near the parapet.

Bilbo had been irritated and flattered in equal measure. Thorin’s choice of words had displayed a contemptuous disregard for his hobbit fear of heights, yet Bilbo had been unable to ignore the fondness lingering in the prince’s voice.

“Master Baggins, the lights!” Fíli breathed out.

There were in fact lights far above, and voices travelling down the pit, though distorted.

“Here, here!” Bilbo tried to shout, and was appalled by the discovery that his voice was ridiculously feeble.

But the light of their lantern had been enough to make their presence known up there. Although Bilbo could not see anything from where he was, he could guess the efforts going on from the clangs and the shouts which fell into the pit. Shadows appeared among the halo of light - they were sending down someone to their rescue! There was some commotion and debris fell down the pit’s throat, but Bilbo suddenly realised that they were going to be safe.

Such certainty was much shaken when a couple of sturdy miners reached the ledge. One of them took care of the dwarfling, while the other approached Bilbo.

“Here, little master,” the dwarf said, and Bilbo recognised him for one of those who had been speaking about Storgar - Storgar who was dead. “Let me tie this rope around you.”

Bilbo could not help recoiling from the dwarf’s touch. Especially since his eye had caught the sudden movement of the other miner beginning his ascent with Fíli firmly tied to him. _Sweet Yavanna_ \- they meant to lift him up like a sack of floor...and who could say that he would not be spilled right into the pit’s mouth? Bilbo would have gladly protested, but the miner was already fastening the rope around his waist and such big, rough hands could not be swatted away without putting up a serious fight.

Thus Bilbo was tied to the miner like some hobbitling carried around by his mother, wrapped in shawls and secured to her breast. Bilbo felt a little out of breath from the pressure of the miner’s arm around his chest, but he did not speak a single word lest the dwarf should loosen his hold at the most inopportune moment. The first pull was a frightening affair, since it lifted them both from the ledge. Bilbo lost the ground beneath his feet, his breath, and a couple of heartbeats. His toes wriggled madly in mid-air, and he could almost swear he felt the horrible yank of the pit itself trying to drag him down again, straight into its bowels.

If they were making any progress, Bilbo did not know. He knew the spasm of the next pull, shooting down his body and making his limbs sore - oh, the way the ropes and the miner’s hug crushed his body! Then a moment of dreadful immobility always followed, long enough for Bilbo to wonder whether there would be another pull or whether they would be left there, dangling. The hobbit could not realise it at the time, but the miner was experienced enough to save him from the worst dangers of the ascent. Bilbo did not break his nose or any other bone against the jutting rocks, neither was he maimed by a risky manoeuvre.

They emerged from the pit and hands grabbed Bilbo and the miner with him, hauling them both over the edge and on to safer ground. Bilbo landed on his feet, but it took him a moment to understand that he was standing and not kneeling nor crawling. Then his mind registered two things in rapid succession. The first was that Fíli had been snatched up into his mother’s arms - Lady Dís was there, hugging and reproaching at the same time and with the same unrelenting energy. The second one was the fact that he was in someone’s arms as well, though the embrace was gentler than the one between Fíli and his mother. Bilbo felt the balls of his feet leave the ground, till he was standing on his tiptoes from the pull of the embrace. He also felt the warmth of the other body dulling the coldness which had crept under his skin and the peculiar scent of metal, earth, and burnt wood which was Thorin’s. Still he would not think of Thorin holding him, until he heard him speak.

“Are you hurt?” the dwarf asked, his voice improbably husky against Bilbo’s ear. The hobbit hummed noncommittally, and Thorin put his big paws on his shoulders to put some distance between them and take a long look at him. “Are you going to faint?” Thorin asked in all seriousness.

“I _might_ faint,” Bilbo retorted, as if he wanted to underline that he would be within his rights to faint then and there.

And then his knees gave way beneath him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  _Dushel’urs: azugâl ashurun ahykhûndaki, Tumûnûnh tursaki_ : “Fire of darkness!, the dragon (lit. 'fire-breather’) tore everyone with his teeth, and burnt Dale (lit. ‘the place of delving men’)”  
>  _Abbad_ : “I’m here”  
>  _Birashagammi_ : “I’m sorry” / “I regret”  
>  _Gamil’adad_ : “old father”


	11. Khazâd-bâhu

Bilbo managed to stay conscious long enough to protest animatedly when Thorin hauled him up, sweeping him off the ground in a single motion and cradling him to his chest without so much as blinking. Nor was the prince impressed with his protests, especially since the whole ordeal had exhausted the impertinent melekûn to the point that his tongue was less sharp than usual. Deaf to the disconnected ramblings of his burden, Thorin took him away from the mines - he would not have left if he had thought Fíli needed his help, but Dís was with her son and Thorin felt entitled to focus on the melekûn.

Bilbo had fallen silent - from exhaustion and shyness Thorin guessed. He did not mind since he was not in a talking mood either and preferred to get Master Baggins to his rooms as soon as possible. More than one guard offered his help, but the prince refused to let another carry the melekûn. It was, indeed, the least he could do.

By the time they reached Master Baggins’ quarters, the hobbit had grown sleepy and his head was leaning against Thorin’s shoulder; the excitement and the fright had taken their toll, and the melekûn finally relaxed in Thorin’s arms - something which slightly unnerved the prince for the unexpected pleasure he found in the melekûn’s weight and body-warmth.

Thorin entered the chambers with Bilbo almost curled against his chest, and did not set him down before they reached the bedroom. Only then, with the drowsy melekûn resting against him and barely keeping on his feet, did Thorin realise that clothes had to be removed to tuck Bilbo under the covers. He could feel how cold the melekûn’s skin had grown from his stay in the tunnels and how boneless the small body felt in his arms. And Thorin would not shy away from stripping the melekûn of his garments; in fact he was rather sure that Bilbo Baggins would be horrified at the idea of lying in a clean bed with his clothes rumpled and soiled.

Yet the dwarf hesitated before roughly pulling the waistcoat down the melekûn’s shoulders and felt even more uncomfortable with taking off Bilbo’s trousers - he did it anyway, shedding the clothes without as much as a glance at the skin revealed and hastily pushing the melekûn under the blankets.

 _Mahal_ , such virginal coyness was ill-fitting for a Khuzd of his age! Still the knowledge of Master Baggins’ modesty was enough to make Thorin awkward. Suddenly Bilbo snored lightly into the pillow. Thorin chuckled and, forgetting his embarrassment, adjusted the blankets, making sure that not a foot nor an elbow stuck out from under them.

He summoned a guard and sent for Óin; he knew that the healer would be at his nephew’s bedside and hoped that he would bring him news of Fíli, as well as something for his broken fingers. He had almost forgotten them in his haste to take care of the melekûn, but Dís would probably smack him on the head if he neglected to let Óin see to his fingers. Besides, though Thorin was rather sure that Master Baggins had not been hurt, he wanted the healer to take a look at him as well.

No healer was more trusted than Óin son of Gróin. He and his brother Glóin were Dwalin and Balin’s cousins, since their fathers were brothers; and their great-grandfather Borin had been King Dain’s younger brother, making them all Thorin’s distant cousins since Dain, First of His Name, had been his great-grandfather. They were, in other words, family. But they would not have been trusted with such foremost positions in Erebor’s society had they not been skilled and loyal in equal measure.

Óin was far older than Thorin and had been the appointed healer for all Thráin’s children. Dwarves do not get often sick; they hardly suffer a cold or stomach ache, and they endure pain with pride. More hardened against physical pain than other races are, dwarves seem more inclined to suffer from their own thoughts, for they can dwell on things past and gone to the point of obsession. It has often been noted that they are most vulnerable to heart-devouring fixations - the _dragon sickness_ being the most famous among them. Thus not only did Óin watch over the royal family’s health, but he also offered his advice against that thread of folly which had manifested itself in Thrór’s last years. Such was the bond between Thráin’s sons and their cousin Óin that Thorin could not think of anyone else to take care of the melekûn - the healer would not overlook soothing Bilbo’s mind as well as his body.

While he waited for Óin, Thorin took a seat at Master Baggins’ bedside.

The melekûn’s sleep was not too deep, but Thorin was glad to see no sign of struggle on his face. His breath was regular enough and he had wrapped himself in the blankets to his contentment. The prince realised that he had never looked upon Bilbo in such circumstances - with the melekûn unconscious of his gaze. He had watched him unobserved, but for fleeting instants at a time; sure enough Bilbo would usually perceive his gaze and return it with a curious light in his eyes or a smile on his mouth. But this spying on the melekûn without being seen, and without Dís or Dwalin calling him upon it, was new to Thorin.

He found it interesting. The melekûn’s sleeping face was so very different from the one he wore while awake. Thorin found himself missing the lively, chirpy coming and going of emotions on Bilbo’s face. The range and transparency of the melekûn’s expressions had often thrown Thorin off balance and yet he now regretted their absence. Deprived of that unpredictable sparkle, Bilbo’s face looked unfamiliar and the absence of beard more striking. He had indeed smooth skin, not marred nor roughened, the round cheeks did not sport more than the light, almost invisible hair of the sweetest peach.

Thorin unconsciously leant forward, looking at the translucent shell of Bilbo’s ear. It was not so very different, though smaller, than an elf’s ear and its point was bright pink in the growing warmth of the room - the flames had risen higher after Thorin had stoked the burning logs in the fireplace. He suddenly realised that he did not remember the colour of Bilbo’s eyes. He was so stricken by his own ignorance on this point and so impatient to amend it that he almost shook the hobbit out of his sleep.

He checked himself in time, but by then his hand was already on the pillow. It was easy to let his fingers slip down, following the pillow’s curve to the mop of curls. They were dusted with grey from the incident in the mines, their natural colour dulled; yet they were soft under Thorin’s fingertips, and their texture felt different from the Khazâd’s hair - smoother, lighter.

He ran one curl between his fingers, sensing that his thoughts were going astray - still there was a path beneath the deceptive inconsistency, but Thorin did not want to examine it too closely. One curl, then another on the temple. It brought Thorin’s fingertips over the melekûn’s eyebrow.

The dwarf did not know if hobbits had any rule regarding the intimacy of touching another’s forehead, but he _did_ know its meaning among dwarves - how it expressed mutual respect and even fondness. Not that their foreheads were touching, but this vague caress might be even worse. _He saved Fíli’s life_ Thorin said to himself; the reminder both nurtured and muffled the stream of his feelings, and gratitude rose higher in his heart, but the other less defined emotion dwindled.

He traced the arch of the melekûn’s eyebrow with his fingertip and that was when Bilbo sighed and his eyelids fluttered. When the hobbit had opened his eyes, Thorin had already backed away as if scolded. The strangeness of his mood hit Thorin; he felt his cheeks burn even before the melekûn’s eyes had found his, and shame for those touches and the foggy thoughts which had accompanied them was mixed with the mortification of having scrambled to his feet like a burglar caught in the act.

“Hello,” Bilbo said, a little throaty.

 _Does he know?_ , Thorin wondered.

The door burst open and Dís marched into the room. She looked neither at Thorin nor at Bilbo - while the melekûn swiftly rose to a sitting position to see what was happening.

“Come in. Put them in that corner,” Dís ordered, gesturing to the servant waiting on the threshold.  

The dwarf promptly obeyed, carrying a small metal chest and depositing it where the princess wished; another servant followed the first one, carrying a chest similar in size but decorated with deep red garnets and the blackest jet, then a third and a fourth servant came in bearing between them a large wooden chest, all painted in turquoise and golden foil.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Master Baggins asked, and he had to ask twice before Dís would turn her head and look at him.

“Dís,” Thorin grunted.

He knew that his sister would recognise the slight warning he was giving her, but he also guessed that she would ignore it, or act even worse for it.

Dís frowned, as if the melekûn’s question had annoyed her. She seemed on the verge of offering some scolding or sharp comment, but instead she moved to the corner where the chests were still piling up, servant after servant. Without much grace she opened one chest, then the next, and another one. A gleam of gold, silver, and gems poured out of the open chests. It looked as if the chests’ contents had been chosen in a hurry, stacked without logic: weapons and vases shared the same container, and Erebor’s round golden coins were mixed with the smaller silver and brass change used in the towns of men.

“Stop it,” Bilbo cried, waving both his hands at the servant trying to carry a large roll of green and black damask through the door. “Stop it. Go away. I won’t have more of this...this folly brought into my room. Out, out you go!” he commanded, and he would have even left his bed and shoved the servant out himself, had the servant not retreated and Thorin been in Bilbo’s way to keep him from rising to his feet.

The melekûn looked at Thorin half in surprise and half in annoyance, his glance darting from the prince’s face to his raised hands. At last Bilbo resumed his position with his back against the headrest.

“I won’t have this, I won’t,” he muttered under his breath, casting Thorin a glance as if he wanted to make sure he had the dwarf’s support on that. Master Baggins’ eyes flashed blue under his eyelashes - but _blue_ was not enough to describe their colour. Yet Thorin had no time to focus longer on the matter.   

“Do as he says,” another voice ordered just out of the door.

A moment later Hepti entered the room. He wore all the insignia accorded to the _Galbân_ \- clearly he had come directly from the King’s council. Still there was a softness to his manners which made them less commanding than Dís’s, though she was not dressed in her crown and jewels, and there were stains of soot on her garments and her cheeks from when she had taken Fíli into her arms.

Hepti looked at Master Baggins for a few moments before turning to Dís.   

“Gold won’t do, haven’t you listened?” he asked her, shaking his head.

He was not annoyed, not exactly; slightly disappointed, and still satisfied in his disappointment - as if his fondness for her faults could yet exceed his displeasure in them. Dís huffed, and she plunged one of her hands into the nearest heap of coins. She let the metal run through her fingers like sand.

“Won’t you have it?” she asked curtly, rising to her full height and fixing her clear blue stare on Master Baggins.

“No, I won’t,” Bilbo answered.

“I won’t offer it a third time,” Dís muttered through her teeth. “You _must_ accept it.”

 _You saved Fíli’s life_ was what Dís did not say, but everyone in the room heard that as if she had shouted it at the top of her lungs. Thorin, who had been annoyed by her arrogant entrance, now pitied her; he could see in the feverish brightness of her eyes that she had been pained by the thought of what could have happened to Fíli, and how long he could have waited for help if Master Baggins had not been there. And now this motherly passion struggled with her pride; she was unutterably thankful to the melekûn and such a debt angered her.  

“Oh, no,” Bilbo replied, and Thorin could hear the smile in his soft voice. “I won’t let you get away with it so easily. I won’t take your gold and your gems, I won’t be paid off. You’ll have, at least for this time, to _like_ me.”

“Smart, isn’t he,” Hepti murmured.

Dís made a face, but Thorin could see in the changed light of her eyes that she agreed. The melekûn’s answer, for all its boldness, had amused her; part of Dís would still resent such a debt, yet she had just had a taste of Bilbo’s truest character. Had not Thorin been won by the same wit and the same bravery? Such a thought caught Thorin unprepared; he saw his feelings mirroring Dís’s as they often did and was taken by an unusual shyness.

Almost unconsciously he backed away, thus giving Hepti the chance to take his place at the melekûn’s bedside. Thorin saw his brother-in-law leaning toward Master Baggins, but he could not hear Hepti’s words distinctly. There was this indescribable noise in his head, drumming through his chest and becoming almost deafening at the sight of Hepti closing his hands - heavy with golden rings - upon Bilbo’s shoulders.

“I suppose it’s all right,” the melekûn murmured, sounding slightly uncertain but pleased nonetheless.

And then Hepti’s forehead touched Master Baggins’.

Hepti did well. He kept his left hand on the melekûn’s shoulder and the other hand he brought to hold the back of Bilbo’s head; it was a loose hold and gentle enough to put someone unused to Khazâd customs at ease, guiding the movement and not restraining it. Thus the melekûn did not jolt and there was just the faintest trace of awkwardness in the way his hands flew to Hepti’s forearm. But it was done as tradition dictated with the right amount of pressure and the right amount of closeness, with their brows pressed together and their noses brushing, Hepti’s fair braids tickling Bilbo’s pink cheeks.

Thorin saw it all - the propriety of it and Heptifili’s clever demeanour.

It was the intimacy gratitude demanded. Master Baggins deserved to be thanked with the gesture Khazâd shared only with their kin, brothers-in-arms, lovers. Hepti’s talent for understanding it appeared even grander compared to Dís’s clumsy offer of coins and jewels; his brother-in-law’s delicacy made Thorin feel as callow as a dwarfling just growing into his beard. He should have thought of it - _he saved Fíli, my heir, my sister-son._

Still, Thorin had been unable to perform what Hepti had done so easily and so judiciously.

Hepti’s thanks had been well-received. Thorin guessed it from Bilbo’s soft smile and the pride which coloured his cheeks and brightened his eyes. Master Baggins seemed to fully understand the importance of such a gesture - oh the melekûn had observed them and learnt even what he had not been taught yet. Thorin brooded over it, reproaching himself over his hasty retreat and his impromptu coyness.

Had he not had time to thank the melekûn as he should have done and keep Heptifili from besting him? _I should have thought of it first_ and the defeat stung him deeply.

He caught Bilbo’s eye when Hepti straightened his back. Thorin guessed that the melekûn was wondering if the same display of gratitude would come from him at last and the prince felt all the displeasure of being second in line rather than first. He would do it, but what a mockery of Hepti’s timely offer of friendship!

“Is it true?” Frerin’s loud voice came suddenly. Thorin turned in time to see his younger brother dash into the room and fling himself onto the bed without a second thought. Master Baggins clutched the blanket and raised it to his chin, as if it could be of some help against Frerin’s brashness. “Have you really done it?” Frerin asked, looking intently at the melekûn. Then he shook his head and slapped the mattress. “Mahal, you have guts to spare! I wouldn’t have put my money on you, and I was as wrong as I could be.”

“Then I’m glad to have proven you wrong,” Master Baggins replied.

His grip on the blanket loosened and he looked at the younger prince with increasing amusement.

“Do you know that there are many gifts queuing out of your door?” Frerin asked, then shot a glance at Dís as if he had just spotted her. “Hullo there, sister. I bet it’s your idea - you should really see one of the cloaks, Master Halfling, it has golden birds sprouting from its shoulders! And a little iron crown with sapphires of the deepest blue that would fit your small head,” he continued, turning back to Bilbo. Thorin heard the melekûn mumble something, and Frerin amended his mistake. “Master Baggins, yes, my apologies. But I suppose we will have to call you Bilbo, now that you’ve saved that pompous brat, my sister-son.”

“Is Fíli well?” Bilbo asked, turning suddenly to Dís.

She seemed pleased by the question, and nodded.

“He is. He wanted to come but...” Dís stopped and Thorin guessed that she had forbidden Fíli to follow her to the melekûn’s quarters, caught as she had been by her resentment.

Whether Bilbo had guessed as much or not, he put on the same smile with which he had braved and endured so many slights from the royal family in the past few weeks. Thorin found himself admiring the way the melekûn was dealing with Dís - _he may even have her wrapped around his little finger sooner or later_ , and he smiled, unnoticed, at the thought.  

“Oh, we’ll have tea later if Fíli feels well enough,” Bilbo offered, folding his hands in his lap.

He managed to look amiable and obstinate at the same time; not a rushing, crushing force - yet a force which would not stray and could not be steered. And the Durin’s line had just been caught in its wake.

“Can I come too?” Frerin inquired, looking delighted at the melekûn’s good-humour - but also quite impressed, Thorin noticed, with Bilbo’s nerve. Of which they soon had more proof:

“You should _all_ come.”

Master Baggins had already won something from Dís, another would have stopped there and been glad enough to have survived her fierce temper. But not _he_. _He_ was already asking them to tea, and Thorin knew all too well that Bilbo Baggins played host as others go to war.

“We will all come, if Master Baggins can stand the effort of entertaining us,” Dís declared through her teeth.

“I’d gladly invite you all, were there room enough,” Bilbo replied, eyeing the treasures stacked between the fireplace and the window meaningfully.

Dís’s gaze hardened and Thorin, for want of some part to play and willing to be of help (whether to his sister or to Master Baggins he did not know), took a couple of strides to the door. The servants were waiting in the antechamber, some of them sitting on the same chests they had carried to the melekûn’s quarters. Thorin gave his instructions to remove all the treasures from Master Baggins’ bedroom and his command was not questioned. The prince knew that both his sister and the others had heard him giving the order; he had spoken in Westron and Master Baggins himself seemed pleased enough when Thorin re-entered the bedroom and claimed his place on the chair by the bed.

“Away with this silliness,” Bilbo commented softly, throwing a brief glance at Thorin.

The prince just had time to pat the mattress with his good hand, before bedlam broke.

Then the room was filled with servants, lifting chests and scooping up boxes, while Dís was sardonically complaining about the servants’ untrustworthiness - offer their ears to her brother’s orders rather than obeying hers! - and Hepti was teasing her about the opportunity of a coup d’état. Frerin kept plunging his hands into this or that chest, thus being in the servants’ way all the time as if he had not been perfectly free to go through Erebor’s treasures at his pleasure at any time in his life, and now he could not keep himself from handling and touching and basically messing around. He obviously managed to do so with as much noise as possible, and then Dís took advantage of the distraction provided by Frerin to command the servants to leave behind one or two of the smallest chests. Hepti promptly ordered the servants to keep on with what they were doing, and Thorin called for the other servants still in the antechamber to remove everything as soon as possible - and maybe even his brother, his sister, and his brother-in-law.

The result was that servants picked up chests and then put them down immediately, others got involved in idle chatting with Frerin, someone else tripped on a necklace and almost found himself sprawled on the melekûn’s bed. And Master Baggins - well, his patience was running thin.

Thorin, who knew the spring-like and sharp-tongued nature of Bilbo’s temper, made to step into the middle of the turmoil and domesticate it, but new noises announced the arrival of other dwarves. There was some commotion in the antechamber, then a servant who was carrying an ebony chest over the threshold let it fall - coins dropped and rolled under the bed.

“For Yavanna’s sake!” Bilbo hissed, then he tried to raise his voice over the clatter of metal and Khuzdul. “I swear, the next dwarf who enters my room will be...”

All the servants dropped their loads at once, and Bilbo’s voice was drowned. Silver, gems, and gold laid scattered everywhere, and Thorin saw the melekûn’s cheeks flare red as a furnace does when it is hot enough to melt metal. Bilbo’s eyes had grown round at the sight of the servants bowing so low as to touch ground with their beards, completely forgetful of the treasures they were supposed to take away.

“...will be...” the melekûn repeated, his voice sounding as if he was just a note away from actually yelling.

King Thráin entered Master Baggins’ bedroom.

A feeble whimper left Bilbo’s lips, like the miserable hiss of a small, slightly cracked teapot.

“... _saluted_?” Bilbo trailed off.

 

Even in the first days of his reign, when the loss of his father to the wrath of the dragons in the North had left the burden of ruling on his young shoulders, Thrór had been said to be the most imposing dwarf who had ever walked on Middle-Earth after Durin the Deathless. Taller than most Khazâd, strong as a wild boar, cunning enough to build himself a reign from the sorrows of exile from the Grey Mountains, King Thrór was still considered unparalleled by his son, King Thráin. And surely - Thorin had to admit as much - his father Thráin was of a more common sort than his grandfather Thrór had been. Yet Thráin - broad and strong-built, fearful with an axe in his hand and sensible enough when it came to politics - was well-loved among his kin and respected by his neighbours. Maybe he would not be remembered as a great king, but he was a _good_ king, steady in friendship and relentless against any threat to Erebor’s peace, gifted with that practical wisdom which bears more fruits than many dreams of grandeur.

Thorin thought of all this while he watched his father approach the melekûn. The heavily-decorated robe Thráin wore offered a stark contrast to the simple, light brown blankets Master Baggins preferred for his bed - velvet and fur had been offered, but the melekûn had turned them down for wool. The gold-and-red embroidery of the King’s garments glistened where the fire-light touched it, and the crown stood dark against his furrowed brow; a dense silence fell on the room and even the little melekûn seemed to shrink under his blankets. Thráin was not his father, yet he had learnt how to make an impression.

Master Baggins was in awe at last, after having braved Dís’s and Frerin’s approach. The melekûn looked at the King with wide eyes, holding his breath. After all he had never spoken to Thráin after the Kataühybîr. Although the melekûn sat at the King’s table, Thráin had not indulged in their guest from the Shire - he had not openly disapproved of Master Baggins in his court, but neither had his interest been piqued.

And the prince had done nothing to turn his father’s attention to the hobbit. Actually Thorin had felt that the less his father the King thought about the melekûn, the better Master Baggins would fare in Erebor, without drawing too much attention to himself. At least until the Mahalmerag.

Suddenly, Thorin felt lithe fingers slipping around his own. They did not clasp nor ask, but nestled warm and light against his palm. It was Thorin who squeezed back, trying to put as much gentleness in it as he could muster.

“Master Baggins,” the King said. “Thank you for saving Fíli’s life. You’ve done a great service to our family.”

 _There_ , blunt and clear, as Thorin should have been - rather than indulging in idle thoughts. And the melekûn looked pleased enough with the King’s frank words, for the shyness which had come over him at Thráin’s arrival seemed to fade. Yet he did not let go of Thorin’s hand.  

“You’re welcome, Your Majesty,” Bilbo replied with renewed boldness. “No service would I have rendered more happily than this; prince Fíli has been very kind to me, and we’ve had our share of laughter and pastries. Never has a Baggins been known for letting down his friends in their hour of need.”

“Then it would be wise for us all to become your friends, Master Baggins,” Thráin offered.

“It was being discussed before your arrival, adad,” Dís pointed out.

“How like my sons to go ahead without me,” the King rumbled, good-humouredly. “Yet I shall make up for the time lost, and beat them,” he promised, winking at the melekûn. “Âkminrûk zu. Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhz, Khazâd-bâhu.”

Thorin’s breath caught - it was not frequent for a stranger to be named _Khazâd-bâhu_ and it was a great honour to be called so by the King under the Mountain himself. He took a glance at Dís and she shrugged; she would not admit to positively liking the melekûn any time soon, but she was fair enough to know that Master Baggins had earned such a title. Frerin and Hepti were pleased as well, and Thorin - Thorin felt as if he had just been robbed. It was an act of burglary, this coming and calling the melekûn _friend_ , when Thorin had failed so miserably in valuing Master Baggins’ friendship as it deserved.  

“Yâdùshun,” Bilbo replied, smiling.  

“They told me you were making progress with Khuzdul,” the King nodded. “We welcomed you here as Tharkûn’s friend, and we offered you hospitality as you did for my son and his companions last year. Stay as long as you wish Master melekûn, you’re now here as _our_ friend, and Erebor will always welcome you in good and hard times alike. It is said that Khazâd hardly value anything beyond gold and silver, but our children are worth far more than ten times their weight in mithril. You’ll find that our friendship is worth as well.”

Then Thráin did as Heptifili had done and made to touch Master Baggins’ forehead with his. But the King was more impatient than his son-in-law or more forgetful of the fact that the melekûn did not share their customs. He moved too swiftly and his head bumped violently into Bilbo’s. The melekûn stifled a gasp and his blunt nails scraped Thorin’s palm, but Thráin did not seem to mind - Khazâd were used to such fierce exchanges and the King was hardly worse for having knocked heads with a hobbit.

Bilbo, on the other hand, ostentatiously rubbed his forehead, then lifted upon Thorin a pleading glance.

“Adad,” Thorin began, clearing his throat, “Master Baggins needs some rest. I have already sent for Óin.”

“Well done, Óin will put him back into shape,” Thráin approved.

He would have probably repeated his performance, head-butting the melekûn a second time in farewell, had his son not reminded him again that the melekûn was in sore need of some respite after the adventure in the mines.

The King then retreated, followed by Dís and Hepti, and the servants carrying away boxes and chests and fishing jewels under the bed. Frerin seemed prone to linger, but Thorin nearly shoved him out of the room as soon as the last servant had left with the last chest. When the room was emptied of dwarves as well as of treasures, Master Baggins slouched against his pillows.

“Thank you,” he murmured, closing his eyes with a blissful smile on his mouth, “I feared they would never leave.” Then he coughed, cracked one eye open and peered at Thorin, who had just taken his place at the bedside. “They’re _nice_ if they are up to it, but I feel my head could just split in two.”

“You’re hurting then, I shall fetch Óin immed-”

“No, no, you silly bugbear,” Bilbo huffed and patted the bed where their hands had remained intertwined throughout the King’s stay in the room. “Let this Master Healer come at his own pace. It’s but a headache and I won’t deny that your father’s... _gratitude_ has sharpened it.”

“Did you hit your head in the mines? Did you fall?” Thorin asked nonetheless, leaning over Bilbo and instinctively closing his big hands around the melekûn’s small skull.

He ignored the sting of pain coming from his broken fingers, looking for injuries or blood and feeling for any swelling or bruises. Before Thorin could apologise upon realising the impropriety of touching the melekûn’s hair so freely, Bilbo covered his hands with his and pushed them away from his head, careful not to hurt the dwarf’s fingers.  

“ _Your father_ hit my head, you know,” he commented with a wry smile. “I guess it’s one of those advantages of being friends with dwarves, that and those boots of yours always getting in the way and trying to crush my toes.”

Thorin, with his hands still in Bilbo’s hold, frowned.

“If you are unwilling to let me check, Óin will,” he grumbled, then let his hands drop down and looked at the fire.

“Should I expect the same from you?” the melekûn asked. “The headbutt part, I mean.”

Thorin gasped this time and felt his cheeks set afire by Bilbo’s teasing tone. The prince slipped from the chair in his hastiness, bumped against the bed’s edge before putting his right knee on it and leaning again over the melekûn, one hand closed over the headboard for support and the other - the one with broken fingers - numbly finding the warm skin over Bilbo’s cheekbone

“Birashagammi, e’muneb khamanmi, me mahasansasa Fíli, irakdashatê, rayadê,” Thorin said, while he brought his forehead against the melekûn’s. He had shut his eyes, and he could swear he sensed the flutter of Bilbo’s eyelashes, the tiniest shift of air against his closed eyelids. “Me mahsaznigi, ra e’shafakhmi; khidu asakhi, asakhi.”   

“Wait, wait,” Bilbo puffed, angling his head until their noses brushed together. There was the faint trace of an impending smile under Thorin’s fingers, the corner of the melekûn’s mouth under his thumb. “I cannot understand you if you speak so quick. My teacher, you know, is hardly any good.”

Thorin gave an half-choked laugh.

“Trust a melekûn to never ignore a chance for complaint,” he said, opening his eyes and craning his neck to look at Bilbo properly. “I owe you, this you know.”

“And what will you do, Thorin son of Thráin?” the melekûn asked. “Will you offer me gold and jewels? Will you call me _friend_?”

Thorin noticed that the smile on Bilbo’s mouth was thinner and his gaze had grown guarded. He also felt the melekûn evade his touch and saw him set himself with his back against the headboard, propped on the pillows. There was a new, though a little weary, alertness to Bilbo; Thorin should have taken it as a warning, but he could not change the course of his words after the dam had been broken.    

“I know my opinion of you was wrong,” the prince said, almost breathlessly. He sit down on the chair, and straightened his back. “I treated you poorly all this time, blind to your merits. I was prejudiced against you, so I doubted you even while I was learning to value your company and your confidence. For this I offer you my sincere apology.”

“How come you’ve changed your mind?” Bilbo asked, almost lazily - yet his eyes were sharp upon Thorin.

“What you’ve done today was...” Thorin shook his head. “I see now your courage and your generosity; you were under no obligations, still you volunteered and brought Fíli back. As I said, I owe you for this...act of valour. I won’t offer you gold for I know you don’t care for it, but you could ask for any and I’d give it to you. Yet I won’t call you friend until you bestow upon me the honour of doing so, but I _do_ hope that you’ll grant me that and thus please me once more...you brave, kind creature.”

Bilbo said nothing, to the point that the prince wondered if the weariness was taking its toll. Then he was stricken by how displeased the melekûn looked - _what have I done wrong?_ Thorin wondered, for he had spoken with his heart more than with his head, and already part of him feared that it would be turned against him. Yet he had thought that this honesty of the heart might be welcome with Bilbo and that the hobbit would value the rashness of his gratitude more than any formal thanks.    

“What have I done wrong?” the prince asked aloud, impatient to break the silence.

“Will I have to save Fíli every time you doubt me?”

“ _What_?” Thorin blinked, stunned by the question.

“That’s what it has taken for you to appreciate me - you’ve just said that,” Bilbo replied very quietly. “Therefore, I ask you: shall I wait for another chance to save one of your lot?”

“Why do you speak of saving my sister-son’s life with such contempt?” the prince asked, feeling that he was missing something.

“Never, never of it!” the melekûn exclaimed, shaking his head. Then his gaze dropped to the hands he kept folded in his lap; his voice grew feebler, as if he was partly ashamed of his own words. “But you see - it does annoy me that this must be how we become friends at last. I had to save Fíli in order to gain your attention, or so it seems. You’re now eager to praise me for my deed and you ‘d probably give me a crown if I asked, but I’d have liked to be praised before, while I wasn’t anywhere near being a hero in a tale.”

“Don’t you deserve to be praised for what you’ve done?” Thorin asked, wondering if Bilbo would elude his touch should he cover the melekûn’s hands with his. He did not try his luck.

“I don’t want to be praised. I don’t want you to...I don’t care for what I deserve now in your eyes,” Bilbo replied, raising his gaze again. It was ablaze whereas the melekûn’s voice was so flat. “I’d have had you know my worth before this, but it has taken this big deed, this _act of valour_ as you call it. I have bought your attention at the price of putting my life at stake.” A slight tremble had marked the last words, but Bilbo took a deeper breath and then chuckled gloomily, once more avoiding Thorin’s eyes. “I feel now like a jester who has had to perform a most dangerous trick to win the King’s praise - yes, I tricked you into liking me, but here’s the truth: I was afraid down there and Fíli was far more courageous than me.”

“When I was younger someone wiser than me and you told me that courage doesn’t mean absence of fear,” Thorin replied after a little while. It was strange indeed to see one’s praises rejected, especially since they had been spoken with honest affection.

“Could it be the same one who told me that being frightened before dangers is the wisest thing?” the melekûn inquired, the corner of his mouth quivering in an ill-repressed smile.

“Tharkûn,” Thorin nodded. “Then you see that it matters not how afraid you were. I thought about you then, walking in the dark. You could have come back at any moment. You didn’t though.”

“I thought about it. Turning on my heels and saying that I couldn’t do it. Would you have been as kind? Would you have come to my room and sat by my bed if I hadn’t done it?”

“What does it matter?” the prince asked, feeling increasingly annoyed. The melekûn wanted to explore grounds Thorin did not care for. “You did it, you shouldn’t question what could have been. Can’t you be content with things as they are? Can’t you take my gratitude for what it is?”

“I know it would be easier to accept it. I’d like to believe you.”

“You think me a liar?” Thorin growled, closing his hands and then loosening his fists again at the pang of pain from his broken fingers.

“I think you believe in what you say, but this doesn’t mean it is true. You’re grateful and now you feel you like my character as you’ve never done before. You do not interrogate this new feeling of yours, but I do; it’s born from exceptional circumstances, but soon you’ll see that I’m still _me_ ,” Bilbo patted his chest with a rueful smile on his mouth, “a boring, middle-aged, fussy hobbit with no business here in Erebor - then you’ll regret your offer of friendship.”

“Do you think so low of me, Master Baggins?” Thorin asked, trying to keep the hurt from his voice. “Do you think me so inconstant to take back my words at the first sign of...you being fastidious about your afternoon tea as if Erebor itself could crumble on his roots should you miss its time? Of you paying such an attention to the state of your handkerchiefs as if they were your amulet against the evil of this world? Of you talking for hours about the sort of _greenery_ which could be grown in Erebor?”

“It was no more than half an hour,” Bilbo tutted, “and there’s some good soil to be found even in the most unexpected places and...” he fell silent, his cheeks turning pink.

“There. Do you think it would be enough to undo what you did?”

“I get it, I get it - you’ll feel bound to...” the melekûn began, but Thorin snorted.

“Your scorn for my gratitude would be enough to relieve me of any obligation,” he made clear, “yet I’m here pressing you to see that I mean my words. Today you have rendered a great service to my family and I need, I _want_ you to know that I was wrong every time I spurned your company and belittled your character.”

Bilbo’s face revealed his feelings - his pleasure in the praise, his hope for Thorin’s sincerity - in such an open, trusting manner that it was almost upsetting to witness. What a strange creature this melekûn was, one so weak and unskilled in many regards, and yet daring to wear his heart on his sleeve. Thus even the disbelief smothering the glow on Bilbo’s face was plain in the dwarf’s eyes.   

It pained Thorin - it was almost a pull, an imprecise yearning for doing, saying, hearing. He felt as if something was eluding him, a piece of conversation that they were not having yet, or a gesture which had remained incomplete. He was clearly unsatisfied with the course their chat had taken, and frustrated at his inability to bend Bilbo’s stubborn resolve to decline his gratitude. Yet there was also a vague remorse kindled by the melekûn’s words, one that Thorin was unable to dismiss; _you should have liked him sooner_ , his mind supplied treacherously. He felt that he had missed a chance, one time or the other, and that it would not be offered again.

 

“Kunh atlâmu? Kunh melekûn?”

Óin’s voice reached them from the antechamber and Thorin rose instantly from the chair. He did not need to, but he took his chance to put a couple of strides between him and the melekûn, and opened the door of the bedroom for the healer.

Óin came in carrying his customary bag heavy with pots and bundles, little bunches of dried herbs and the smallest knives; there was always a smell of moss and sulphur about him, vaguely unpleasant as many of the remedies he ministered to his patients. Around his neck he wore a golden chain, and attached to the chain there was the ear trumpet he used to artificially improve his hearing, which had been dwindling for years - though Frerin had often pointed out that the state of Óin’s hearing had a tendency to change according to the healer’s advantage.

Óin approached the bed and took a good, long look at Bilbo.

“So, this is the melekûn,” he tutted, as if something had already won his disapproval. “No beard, I see.”

Thorin coughed, coming behind Óin and putting his hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, this is our guest, Master Baggins. Master Baggins, this is Óin son of Gróin, my cousin and my family’s trusted healer,” the prince introduced them to one another.

“How do you do,” Bilbo murmured, still frowning after the comment on his lack of beard.  

“ _Trusted_ , indeed. It would be preposterous otherwise; no one in my care has ever died except that time - a very funny story indeed...” Óin began, almost dreamily. A grunt from Thorin shook him out of his reverie. “My patient, yes, yes, I was coming to it! Such an impatient lad you are, Thorin,” he reproached the prince, waggling his index finger under his nose. “I know all about dwarf bodies and their fluids and smells, but never before have I taken upon myself to heal a halfling.”

Óin had set his bag on the bed-side table and begun to rummage through its content, sometimes taking out of it a small metal bottle or an odorous roll of leaves, or a tiny and sharp scalpel.   

“I’m sure I need no healing,” Bilbo hissed, going as far as to grab Thorin’s sleeve and gave a pull when the dwarf was again within his reach. “I swear if he comes near me with that...”

“You’re far too pale for my liking. And I’d be worried about that lack of hair,” Óin commented while he kept fumbling through his bag.

“I’m _not_ worried at all, thank you very much. If you happen to have something for my headache I’ll be glad to oblige you, otherwise I believe I’ll take care of myself well enough,” the melekûn snarled.

“Your heartache you say?” Óin asked, his tone rising to a pitch which left Bilbo grimacing. “Jolly idea to send a beardless thing like this down to the mines. What is going on in that head of yours, Thorin?” and he poked his fingers against the prince’s chest, ignoring Bilbo’s whine:

“Headache, I said headache!”

“A weak heart and you take him to the mines!” Óin exclaimed, raising his hands upon his head as if in despair. “You might as well have taken him hunting; I thought that there was more sense in you, lad. Surely you two could have thought of something else for your amorous whims.”

“His _what_?” Bilbo choked on the words.

“Óin, please, it wasn’t...” Thorin sighed, stiffening. “You know very well Fíli was there with us.”

“A sensible lad that one, good choice for chaperoning,” Óin nodded, looking pleased at last. “Now, if you had chosen your spoiled brother instead...”

“Can you just give me something for my headache?” Bilbo asked, his voice brittle. “At home I use lavender and feverfew, but I do not know what you call them here in the East.”

“Let’s take a look at you,” Óin announced, “and then we’ll see how to put you back in shape. And maybe grow some beard at last. You aren’t a child, are you? Thorin, have you inquired about his age before taking him out for a romantic stroll?”

“Thorin!” Bilbo hissed, his face as red as it could get without actually turning purple. “I’m not a child!” he added then, shooting Óin a scorching glance. Not that the old dwarf looked anywhere near impressed.

Thorin rolled his eyes, but he grabbed Óin’s trumpet and put the smaller end to the healer’s hear. Then he spoke into the other end.

“Óin, could you just get on with it? I don’t think Master Baggins was harmed, but I’d feel better if you were to check on him, and then give him something for his headache. _Head-ache_. He doesn’t suffer from his heart, nor we...”

“What are you shouting in my trumpet for?” Óin interrupted him, and even hit Thorin’s shoulder with the trumpet. “I know what I’m doing, lad. Stop fussing about the halfling like a mother hen around his chick. Not even your sister Dís was so annoying about her lad. You’ll get him back healthier than ever. Now, let me have a proper look.”

Thorin retreated with heated cheeks.

“Only be gentle, Master Baggins is not a dwarf...” he muttered under his breath.

“That much I can see for myself,” Óin grumbled, “lack of beard and all. So, Master melekûn...”

“I won’t be handled like a doll nor talked down to. And don’t even think about coming near me with any of your blades or giving me any unnamed concoction out of your bag,” Bilbo listed, very slowly. “ I’m not sure that living among dwarves hasn’t already taught me something about being unpleasant if it comes to it.”

Óin laughed at that and patted his chest.

“Cheeky one, I see what has gotten into our prince,” he commented, winking at Thorin. Both Bilbo and Thorin groaned, but neither of them tried to correct the healer’s opinion again. “Now, I shall ask to examine you. No handling and no tricks, at your own pace.”

Bilbo said nothing to Óin, but he glanced at Thorin. The dwarf frowned, then suddenly understood what was required of him - melekûnh were not accustomed to sharing the sight of their body as Khazâd were. He remembered too well the quarrel Frerin’s dressmakers had caused when they had been too _handsy_ with Master Baggins, demanding he bare himself before their eyes. Thus Thorin made for the door.

“Stay, just...turn,” Bilbo said from the bed.

The prince almost snorted. Surely the melekûn could trust Óin to know his job well enough and did not need to keep him, Thorin, to make sure that the healer did not overstep his boundaries. Yet he did not leave, feeling that he could indulge the melekûn; in fact it amused and pleased him that Bilbo relied on his protection despite all his proud words.

Thorin leant with his elbows on the window stool. He was not really looking out, but rather idly picking at his thoughts, letting them blend with the sound of Óin’s and Bilbo’s voices. The healer questioned Bilbo about his head and his limbs, inquiring about how he felt and even going as far as to worry about the melekûn’s diet in Erebor and the quality of his sleep. Master Baggins seemed to have reconciled himself with the healer, and answered well enough - even prattled a little, in his own fashion, when they happened to speak about the remedies known in the Shire and the herbs which could be found in the West. From Óin’s requests and the rush of fabrics, Thorin guessed the proceedings: how Óin patted the melekûn’s back and listened to his breath, how he felt his throat and his pulse, how he tapped his old fingers on Bilbo’s round stomach - this last resulting in the hobbit stifling his silvery giggles. Then came again the sound of clothes put back in place, and Óin’s voice over the clink of bottles and spoons.

“One sip of this to dull the headache, while this is for the bruises to diminish the swelling. For the cuts, cleaning and some ointment every day to keep them from becoming infected, especially the one on the knee. A lighter meal for this evening, then a long night’s sleep. No strolls till the morrow.”

Thorin heard Bilbo chuckle this time. It seemed that Óin had proved gentle and competent enough to please the little Master; it did please Thorin as well, as did the assurance that no harm had befallen Bilbo. Still he did not turn - he said to himself that it was up to the melekûn to tell him when he could do it without _intruding_ (the very word Master Baggins had used once upon time, in his kitchen at Bag End). In truth Thorin quite liked that moment, with the heat of the crackling fire on his back and the coldness of the window glass against his forehead, and Bilbo talking about the properties of sage (or thyme?) to Óin. He did not wish to go back to the dispute Óin had interrupted with his arrival, so he would have that moment prolonged.

“What is that?”

Bilbo’s question made Thorin frown and straighten his back.

“What?” he asked, slightly dazzled.

His eyes fell on the melekûn, who was sitting on the edge of the bed with his feet dangling above the floor and a white bandage around his left knee. Óin was putting away his things in his bag, but Master Baggins was looking at the window, and Thorin did the same.

A light made of greys and whites came through the window, and it was as if some of that light had begun to pile up in small, bright clusters against the window sill. Thorin smiled to himself.

“That, Master Baggins, is this year’s first snow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  _Galbân_ : council-men (the ones who have a place in the council)  
>  _Âkminrûk zu. Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhz, Khazâd-bâhu_ : “thank you. May Mahal’s hammer shield you, friend of Dwarves”  
>  _Yâdùshun_ : “thank you” (formal)  
>  _Birashagammi, e’muneb khamanmi, mahasansasa Fíli, irakdashatê, rayadê_ : “I’m sorry, I should have thanked you; you saved Fíli, my heir."  
>  _Me mahsaznigi, ra e’shafakhmi; khidu asakhi, asakhi_ : “You’re brave and I doubted you, but now I see - I see.”  
>  _Kunh atlâmu? Kunh melekûn?_ : “Where’s my patient? Where’s the melekûn?


	12. The Dragon in Dale

“One layer more and you’ll have to roll me down the slopes,” Bilbo muttered, his voice muffled by the thick wool scarf he wore. He had to stretch his neck in order to keep his mouth above the scarf’s line, and still he looked as if he might drown in wool at any moment. “But it looks _so_ cold,” he added bashfully, ill-concealing the thrill in his tone and the eager flicker in his eyes.

Thorin felt a smile rise to his lips at the mere sight of the melekûn. He was, indeed, cocooned in layers of warm garments, enfolded in wool and fur. The little red-brown fur cape draped over Bilbo’s shoulders had been Thorin’s touch - he had asked for it from his sister and Dís had been more gracious than he had expected.

“Go on, take it,” she had said, shrugging. “Tell your melekûn he can keep it, I have no use for it.”

Saying Master Baggins that the fur was a present from Dís was somewhat stretching the truth, even if he had made clear that the cape had been Dís’s in the first place and she had worn it for years. Bilbo had been very pleased all the same, beaming while Thorin arranged the fur on his shoulders.

“Giving someone your old clothes is a sign of friendship and closeness among hobbits. Large families pass garments from father to son, and from cousin to cousin,” the melekûn had explained. “It may not be the same among dwarves, but I think your sister has been kind. It smells of burning wood and vervain.”

 _Very kind indeed_ , Thorin had thought lazily. He still felt puzzled by Dís’s attitude toward the melekûn. On his return from the Shire he had found her curious about his time in the West and mightily pleased with almost everything she heard about Master Baggins - from time to time she had even teased Thorin about his unwillingness to admit that he had liked the melekûn’s company. Such a light-hearted approach differed from the cold welcome she had reserved for Master Baggins in Erebor.

Proud and stern she was, yet she had outdone herself with the melekûn. Never downright cruel, Dís had nonetheless done her best - or worst - to make Bilbo feel unwelcome. Whereas she had never uttered a sharp remark about him outside her own family, she had also made sure that the melekûn could guess her disapproval and contempt. Besides she had supported Frerin’s idea of a bet...

At last, after Master Baggins had rescued Fíli, Dís was warming to him. She would never admit it aloud, but this new mood suited her more than the previous one. And it suited Thorin as well.

“Here, let me help you,” Thorin said, crouching beside the hobbit and adjusting the belt.

This Thorin had taken from his room, guessing that the fur cape would need fastening at the waist. He had chosen the belt for its light weight as well as for its fine silver buckle, which sported unnamed flowers and maple leaves - an unusual decoration for a dwarf, but one which would be appreciated by the melekûn.

“Not too tight,” Bilbo protested, slapping Thorin’s hands lightly. Then his voice softened and his thumbs ran over the buckle, following its design. “It’s pretty, thank you.”

“It’ll keep the cape and the overcoat in place even with the winds blowing over the slopes,” the dwarf replied, his great fingers moving nimbly on the buckle to regulate it. “There, now I could roll you and you’d probably feel nothing at all.”

“Oh, you’re joking now - that’s how bad it is,” Bilbo commented, pretending to pout over Thorin’s words. Yet his eyes could hardly conceal his excitement and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly impatient to start. “Snow is rarer in the Shire and never so much,” he murmured in his defence.

“I know, you’ve repeated that at least ten times,” the prince reminded him. “You’ve seen few snowy winters in your time and despite the fact that in the Shire the Fell Winter is still remembered with tales of horror and woe, you can’t help loving snow. Have I said it well?”

“Yes, at least you were listening one out of the ten times I’ve said it,” Bilbo replied, scrunching up his nose. Then he stared dreamily through the great door open in the Mountain’s side. “Oh, I don’t know what comes over me when I see snow! It makes me happy doing nothing but falling, falling...but we will waste the day in my ramblings. Please, let us go at once,” he pleaded, smiling.

“At your service, Master Baggins,” Thorin answered, making the gesture of leaving Bilbo way and then following him under the high arch of the main door - the very same entrance Smaug Bundushar had used to enter Erebor.

It had been repaired after the damage caused by the dragon making its way into the Mountain, trashing his tail all over the walls, crumbling pillars in his paws, melting rocks with his breath. Thorin’s thoughts flew to that day, as they often did, whether he willed them to or not. Then he looked at the melekûn almost taking leaps in anticipation of the pleasure to come. Thorin wondered how such different things - Smaug and Bilbo Baggins - could be contemplated in the same world. One bent to destruction and death, the other to comfort and happiness.    

“Thorin, will you come?” Bilbo asked, a little petulantly.

The prince would have sworn that a couple of guards at the door actually _sniggered_ at the melekûn’s call, but he did not bother to reproach them. He had promised Master Baggins the whole day and he would be true to his word.

They moved out of the shadow of the great arch, out in the bright light of the Mountain’s side encrusted with snow. Dwarves had been working since the first hours of the morning to clear the stairs winding their way down to Dale. Still patches of fresh snow appeared on the steps, while the two statues guarding Erebor’s entrance were sporting the whitest beard and braids. Thorin caught Bilbo looking up at the massive stone dwarves and blinking into the glare of the sun on the snow.

“They were already there when I was born,” the prince commented. “Thrór wanted them carved in the first years of his reign, for he believed that they would guard Erebor from evil. I guess he could not see that sorrows always find a way in.”

“Or _out_ ,” Bilbo replied. Thorin’s words - for all their unsolicited gravity - had not displeased him. His smile had dimmed, but the melekûn looked no less eager to discuss this than the beauty of the snow. “I think that sometimes we are so focused on protecting ourselves and our loved ones from the menaces lurking in the world, that we miss the dangers of our own heart and the great evil any of us may perpetrate.”

“ _Any_ of us?” Thorin asked with a vague smile.

Bilbo frowned, probably suspecting the dwarf of teasing, but it was another sort of thought that amused the prince. Once he had thought Bilbo Baggins a creature of comforts with no real knowledge of the world, now that very same melekûn could talk of good and evil, and talk well too - as wise as a little king.

“Any of us,” Bilbo repeated, “for everyone can be tempted and stray from the path. Gandalf says that there is good even in small things and this lesser good is as important as the great deeds of old. Yet I think that there’s something Gandalf doesn’t say and doesn’t like to think about - that corruption may lie in the smallest things as well and its effects compete against the most malicious forces.”

Thorin looked at the melekûn, baffled at the feeling weighing on his chest. It was reverence, but the prince did not know how to express it, so he stood there looking at Bilbo Baggins and wondering how he had missed so much about him. He lowered his head, munching half-thoughts in his mind.

“Must you walk with your feet unprotected from the cold?” Thorin asked suddenly. “I know you’re averse to boots, but I could find you lighter shoes or at least some cloth to wrap around your feet to keep you from catching a cold.”

“I remember, Master Dwarf,” Bilbo began, humorously, “that I suggested the same danger of catching a cold for you and you looked as if I had wounded your pride at the mere thought.”

“It was Spring, you overly-retentive thing,” Thorin reminded him. “And I also remember you blushing at my bare chest. Your feet do not offer me any chance to blush, so you can hardly compare. So, shall we go back inside and find you something to keep your feet warm before starting our day?”

“Oh no, no,” the melekûn shook his head. “We’re still lingering and I want to feel the snow under my feet. I’ll keep them as they are, thank you very much.”

“As you wish,” Thorin complied while they took their first step down the stairs. “Yet I won’t have you complaining about being forced to swallow Óin's tisane.”

“I’m sure Óin could come up with less evil-smelling, unsavoury concoctions if only he cared for taste in his creations. It may be that his patients would distrust a remedy too sweet - you dwarves seem to loathe any comfort at times! I, on the other hand, appreciate some sugar,” he admitted, shrugging. He leant against Thorin’s arm for a brief moment when his feet came upon a patch of snow, then looked up. “Oh. _Oh!_ I had almost forgotten the feel - it didn’t snow in the Shire last Winter.” Bilbo’s eyes turned away from his, his gaze fleeing to Thorin’s hand. “Speaking of Óin, how’s your hand?”

“It’ll take some time before the bandages and the sticks can be removed; Óin cannot stand the idea of leaving me with crooked fingers,” Thorin sighed. “Fortunately, I can write and do most things with both my hands, so I don’t suffer for being deprived of my right. It’s the sort of ability that comes with being in danger of having one of your hands heavily bandaged after some sparring with Dwalin.”

“I think you two put too much in your sparring.”

“You are too impressionable,” the prince pointed out. “It keeps our skills well-honed and our spirits high.”

“And it may cost you your nose.”

“Are you fond of my nose?” Thorin inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“I’d prefer not to bump into you again coming back from _some sparring_ , as you call it, with your face covered in blood because you managed to smack your nose with your own shield.”

“Now you’re suggesting that I’ve a big nose that cannot avoid my shield.”

“If you’re so fond of Óin’s concoctions _and innuendos_...” Bilbo suggested, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure he wouldn’t miss the opportunity of this walk of ours.”

Thorin laughed softly, then shook his head.

“I think that even Óin would admit that some celebration is required this time,” he replied. “After all, it’s not every day that a melekûn manages Khuzdul so well.”

“ _Dushel’urs: azugâl ashurun ahykhûndaki, Tumûnûnh tursaki_ ,” Bilbo recited once again, half-grinning and almost missing one step - Thorin helped him keep his balance with a hand swiftly placed at the centre of the melekûn’s back.  

Bilbo had managed to pronounce the line from the _Khazâd’gamul_ correctly the day before for the first time. Since then, he had repeated it over and over, basking in his success.

Not that there hadn’t been any manifest improvement before. The melekûn was already well-acquainted with the runes and though his calligraphy retained some indefinite (and un-dwarvish) flair, it was good enough for a beginner. Presented with a text written in runes, Bilbo could recognise short common words; he had already surprised Thorin by reading and translating some inscription carved in Erebor’s walls.

His progress was slower when it came to Khuzdul speech, most discourses in Khuzdul being still unintelligible to him - yet Thorin had noticed that Bilbo had a tendency to guess their meaning from the few words he could pick-up. Nor could the melekûn articulate more than a few simple questions and answers, and his pronunciation was usually disappointing.

 _He would do better if you sent him to work in the forges_ , Frerin had commented one day after he had heard the melekûn trying out a few words newly learnt. And Thorin had been unable to deny that Bilbo still could not get past that simple, musical line from the _Khazâd’gamul_.

Then, a few days after the incident in the mines, Thorin and Bilbo had been reading together from a book of songs the prince had received from Master Ori, Balin’s favourite secretary. Master Ori was an appointed royal scribe and librarian, well-appreciated for his excellent knowledge of Khuzdul and his fine calligraphy; he was also quite timid, and Thorin knew him to be prone to prattling and embarrassing himself whenever he bumped into him and Dwalin looking for Balin.

Yet Ori had met Thorin’s requests for books to present to Master Baggins with unexpected determination.

“I have often wondered about the customs of the Western lands,” the scribe had confessed to the prince, “since our library holds almost no knowledge about them. The melekûnh especially are absent from chronicles and reports, but I found _this_ ,” he had said, putting a small book bound in green leather into Thorin’s hands. “It was among the gifts brought from Ered Luin by the dwarves who joined you on your journey back from the Shire last year, Your Highness. It’s an anthology of ballads, silly poems, and songs. Whoever compiled this declares they have collected the best of the Western folks’ rhymes and tunes, and translated them into Khuzdul for his dwarf readers. He doesn’t mention halflings, but I guess some of these could be sung among them...well, I’d be glad to have Master Baggins’ opinion on it.”

“I’ll give him the book,” Thorin had promised, patting the scribe’s shoulder. “I think this will do.”

“And it may help Your Highness in his teaching,” Master Ori had added, made bold by his prince’s approval.

Thorin had quirked his eyebrow at the scribe, who had coughed awkwardly and asked him if he could be of any service, pretending he had never spoken at all about the teaching and then scuttling back to his desk when Thorin dismissed him. Clearly Thorin’s lessons with the melekûn were still an object of speculation in and outside the court, and even Ori the scribe felt encouraged to offer his advice.

Yet Thorin’s annoyance had faded at the thought of offering Master Baggins such a treat. Although Bilbo had not spoken again against Thorin’s gratitude and had been entertaining the whole royal family for tea, Thorin felt compelled to show the melekûn that he had been sincere. He _did_ want Bilbo to believe him, to accept his gratitude and his apologies. His conscience would not rest otherwise - this was how Thorin explained the tug at his heart that he experienced every time he thought of Bilbo’s words on the day of the incident.

So the prince had tried to guess Bilbo’s wishes and show that he cared for them. It would have been impossible to overlook the melekûn’s fascination with the snow, but Thorin had been averse to exposing Master Baggins to the cold so soon after the incident and had postponed his offer of a walk.

It had snowed for days, and sometimes it had fallen so thick that Dale had vanished from sight in the blizzard. During those days, Thorin insisted that Master Baggins take some rest and not exert himself too much.

“Stop _fussing_ ,” Bilbo had reproached him one day, clearly exasperated enough to forget his usually suave manners. “And stop tiptoeing around me as if I could break at any moment. Óin said I was perfectly alright, and you’re treating me like a wilting flower. I won’t run out into the snow storm, if that’s what you worry about, but I’d rather have you rallying against feebleness than treating me like the weakest pup in the litter.”

Thorin had been slightly ashamed at the reprimand. He had not realised that he had been overdoing his care for the melekûn, but he had to admit that he had not really got a hold on the whole business. He knew, more or less, how to care for his family; still, now that he had decided that he would take care of the melekûn he was full of doubts. Bilbo’s reactions were different from those of all the Khazâd Thorin held dear. What would please Dís was lost on Master Baggins, while he was able to be touched by things no one else Thorin knew would care about.

Thus he had been relieved when the melekûn had asked him to keep on with the lessons in Khuzdul.

“You’ll agree that as long as I’m busy with learning Khuzdul I won’t run away to save dwarves and become a hero,” Bilbo had said in a sarcastic tone that Thorin had found both mortifying and annoying.

Still, it had suited Thorin well. The lessons allowed him to keep an eye on the melekûn without being too overwhelming and in truth he had started to like those meetings with Master Baggins. Quarrels did not go amiss between them, but with increasing frequency Thorin found himself almost surprised at the intimacy of the thoughts and words they were cultivating. And it had been too easy to share Bilbo’s happiness in his little victory.

“I cannot believe whoever wrote this missed the point of the ballad!” Bilbo had exclaimed, while they had been reading from the anthology. They had been snugly seated by the fireplace in the prince’s room and in his excitement for the book the melekûn had been leaning carelessly against Thorin’s side to get a proper look at the pages. “You see, the original verses speak about the several steps of falling in love.”

“Doesn’t it speak about a walk through the meadows?”

“It _does_ , you plonker,” Bilbo had replied, “but it’s a metaphor - surely you dwarves know about metaphors. I don’t remember it verse by verse. Only that at the beginning it talks about lavender, which stands for solitude; then it names freesias and ivy for friendship, and blue salvia to say _I think of you_. Then comes a line about the lily-of-the-valley, which symbolizes sweetness, followed by the yellow iris for passion. The last stanza sings about daffodils, new beginnings, and the honeysuckle which speaks of the bonds of love.”

Thorin had been utterly confused - lavender, ivy, and iris he did know, but he did not remember how the other flowers Bilbo had named looked nor would he have ever suspected that flowers could carry as many meanings as the colours on a coat of arms.

“Anyway, this dwarf from Ered Luin just translated every single flower name with _flower_! I cannot believe he thought that they were unimportant details...” the melekûn had sighed, shaking his head.

“I fear he just couldn’t do otherwise,” Thorin had replied, feeling slightly sheepish without knowing why. “We Khazâd haven’t so many words for flowers - we do not need them. Óin himself mostly uses Westron terms for the plants and the herbs in his remedies, even when he’s talking in Khuzdul.”

“If Khazâd do not need names for flowers as you say, then I’m sorry for you,” Bilbo had mused, then he had bitten his lower lip and took a look at Thorin’s face. “How can you bear to not have words for some things in the world? Should you need...”

“We haven’t so many flowers around Erebor,” the prince had interrupted him, impatiently. “And we do not need to distinguish them. We do not speak your flower language.”

“Oh, yes, you prefer to say _Dushel’urs: azugâl ashurun ahykhûndaki, Tumûnûnh tursaki_ ,” Bilbo had replied in mockery.

Thorin’s eyes had grown round with stupor, and he had looked at the melekûn to see if Master Baggins had at least realised what he had just done. Bilbo had pressed his hand over his mouth, his eyes full of wonder.

“You have said it as a Khuzd would have,” Thorin had commented. “Flawlessly.”

“Have I?” Bilbo had asked, his hand dropping down.

“Yes, definitely yes.”

Soon enough Bilbo had been laughing.

Laughing so hard, indeed, that he had almost fallen on his back. Then he had leapt to his feet, and said that they had to have tea and at least two or three types of cake to celebrate. He had bounced around the room, humming the same phrase again and again. Thorin had watched, amused, until Bilbo had taken his hands and ordered him to get up.

When Thorin had done it though, the melekûn had looked at a loss, as if he had not known what could possibly come from that. They had stood in front of each other holding hands, Bilbo’s smile wavering, Thorin trying to keep himself from frowning. Then the melekûn had released Thorin’s hands, apologising for having forgotten the dwarf’s broken fingers. He had marched toward the door, promising to come back from his kitchen with some treats. It had been then that Thorin had invited him for a walk.

“You say this deserves some celebration, let’s have it then. We can take a walk tomorrow. You are so enamoured with the snow and the sky is clearer tonight. Tomorrow will be a bright day - a walk in the snow as reward...what do you say?”

 

“ _Dushel’urs! Azugâl ashurun ahykhûndaki! Tumûnûnh tursaki!_ ” Bilbo intoned, turning the words into a merry song. His pace was a little boisterous, and his cheeks glowed red from cold and glee.

“Good. You’ve got it at last,” the prince commented, smiling despite himself.

“ _At last_! You’ve this knack for ruining the mood...or maybe you’re just unwilling to admit that you were wrong - _you couldn’t learn Khuzdul_ , you declared on your second day in my house. _Your mouth is too soft_ ,” Bilbo said, trying to imitate Thorin’s deep, grumbling tone. The effect was so comical that the melekûn himself let out a small chuckle while Thorin openly laughed.

“I may have said that,” he admitted, “but then I didn’t know that you would have had such a teacher at your disposal.”

“I have a word or two to say about the teacher,” Bilbo replied lazily. “For example, when shall I make use of my new knowledge? I’m sure my perfect intonation would be greatly admired, but I doubt I’ll speak of dragons and ruin over tea. Will your sister appreciate it?”

“You’d be surprised at the things Dís can discuss over tea,” Thorin pointed out, smiling at the thought.

He realised that he had been doing that - smiling and laughing as well - quite frequently since the beginning of their walk. Had Dís not said something to the same extent? _Bilbo Baggins, the melekûn who makes my grumpy brother smile_. It had been said partly in scorn, but Thorin knew it was true if the slight soreness of his jaw from grinning at Bilbo’s teasing was anything to go by.

“It was a good idea,” the melekûn said suddenly. “This walk, I mean.”

Thorin thought of a witty answer, but instead he said:

“Yes, it was.”

They had abandoned the staircase path for some time, turning right to follow a route cutting through the fir grove which darkened the gentler slopes of the Mountain. The route was easy enough to follow despite the snow, for trees had been cut down to keep the path clear and the snow on the ground had been tread on that very morning. It was, indeed, the route usually taken by the parties of hunters which provided Erebor’s kitchens and market with fresh meat. During Winter the game was shy and suspicious, and the snow would slow down the hunters; still some of them were trying their luck in the strips of forest in the West. But they would not intrude upon Bilbo and Thorin’s walk since King Thráin had forbidden hunting so near Erebor’s gate long ago. Thus the woods closer to the staircase path were a peaceful retreat for deer and smaller animals, and many birds nested on the branches of firs and birches.

The rows of trees alongside the path shielded Thorin and Bilbo from the wind and the air was warmer than it had been on the staircase. The fir branches slightly groaned under the weight of the snow and from deeper in the grove sometimes came the sudden snap of a branch breaking under the burden. It was usually followed by the noisy flight of the disturbed and dislodged birds - ravens especially, rising black and raucous in the bright sky. But they also saw blue jays, cardinals, and bullfinches perched on the rowan branches, red and heavy with berries. Small prints in the snow revealed the passage of foxes and the nasal bell of a male deer echoed through the lines of trees.

The spell of snow had heightened the beauty of the grove, and Thorin did not need any further proof of this than the enchanted look on the melekûn’s face. It seemed as if even the smallest detail could delight him and still he found time to chat with Thorin, moving nimbly through topics and jumping from the difficulties of Khuzdul grammar to memories of his childhood, from the things he wanted Thorin to explain about Khazâd customs to what he had heard of Dale.

“I’ll give you a tour of the city,” Thorin said, after Bilbo had been wondering about the difference between the Dale-people and the men living in the West.

“Will you?” the melekûn repeated, looking torn between pleasure and doubt. “I’m sure someone will accuse me of keeping you from your duties between our lessons and this walk.”

“Even a prince needs some diversion,” Thorin muttered. “I shall, in fact, do this more frequently.”

Bilbo did not ask what _this_ included, but the smile he offered Thorin was nothing short of charming.

For once the prince did not feel guilty about it - it felt really refreshing to be in the open air, chatting away the hours far from his usual routine. Not that Thorin had never known the pleasure of a stroll in the brisk air of a Winter morning, nor were the joys of conversation completely unfamiliar to him - he might not have been overly interested in idle chatting, but there were a few he truly liked to talk to, like his sister or Dwalin.

Yet Master Baggins had the power to make him wish for more of this leisure, and it had taken Thorin a good while to not be annoyed about it.

“Listen,” he said suddenly, interrupting Bilbo while he was talking about some recipe for a pomegranate cake he had been discussing with Master Bombur.

He had put his hand on the melekûn’s arm and Bilbo turned his blue-grey eyes on him. Thorin vaguely recalled that he had thought - fleetingly, confusedly - about doing this later, when they had reached the hunters’ shelter and they would have food and drink.

There was no reason to compel him to stop their walk right then and he felt annoyed with himself. He took his hand away from Bilbo’s arm and the hobbit frowned at the abruptness of the gesture. Thorin avoided his gaze, focusing on searching his overcoat pockets; in truth he knew very well where he had kept them all this time, but it gave him time to tamper down his irritation.

“What is it, Thorin?” Bilbo asked gently.

He took them out from the small pocket hidden on the inside of his blue velvet jacket, where they had rested - a forgettable weight - against his heart for days. He could not help keeping his fist closed around them, before shoving it under the melekûn’s gaze - he also could not help savouring the curiosity lighting up Bilbo’s features and the way he licked his lips.

“You left them in the mines,” Thorin said, opening his fist.

Bilbo gave a little peep of surprise at the sight of the brass buttons which had popped out from his waistcoat.

“I thought I had lost them for good!” he exclaimed, cupping Thorin’s hands with both of his as if the buttons were tiny birds or fish which could vanish at any moment. “Why have you waited so long to tell me?” Bilbo asked, surprised but hardly annoyed.

 _Yes, why?_ Thorin wondered as well. He had taken the buttons from where they had fallen on the ground, torn off by the sharp end of the crevice Master Baggins had squeezed himself through. Thorin had not even properly thought about it, he had just bent down mechanically and closed his hand over the buttons. Pain had flared up in his hand then, for he had used his broken fingers, but his mind had been numb. He did not remember putting the buttons away, only keeping them in his palm while they waited for the light of Master Baggins’ lantern to show them the way down the pit.

Later he had found the buttons in the pocket of his jacket. He had kept moving them from one jacket to another, sometimes even to the pocket of one of his shirts or tunics. He knew that he had to return the buttons to the melekûn, who was an easy prey to distress about his clothes and could hardly stand any tear, stain, or damage to them - prim and fussy as he was.

Still Thorin had kept the buttons, and he had caught himself taking them out and rolling them in his palm while he was reading through official documents in the solitude of his study. Another time Balin had caught him in the act, but had said nothing - it would have been better if his old friend had spoken, indeed.

 _Fíli and Bilbo came back_ , Thorin sometimes thought when his hand happened to feel the outline of the buttons in his pocket. The buttons had become some sort of lucky-charm - an odd feeling for a dwarf who had always believed in making his own luck and was hardly prone to superstition.   

“I kept forgetting,” Thorin lied, looking at Master Baggins’ smaller and softer fingers curled around his palm.

“As soon as I get to my rooms I’ll sew them back on my waistcoat,” Bilbo replied, his voice tinged with a smile.

The melekûn put the buttons away in his bag (they were both carrying some provisions for their lunch in the woods), then they resumed their walk.   

 

The last tranche of the path skirted a small brook. The water ran through the grove, gushing out from some spring hidden among the bare slopes where no trees grew.

While they had been descending the staircase, Thorin had pointed out to Bilbo the far silver gleam of water jumping from the higher steps of the Mountain; many of those cold streams fell down the clefts into the mountain. Some of them had been harnessed by the dwarves and bent to serve their purposes, but some had been left alone and they had carved their way to marvellous caves encrusted with minerals and sparkling with water-mirrors. A few torrents reached the lower slopes or mysteriously re-emerged from the rocks after their journey into the darkness below the surface. There they lost their temper in circling paths in the woods, often ending their run in moss-green pools.

The brook that Thorin and Bilbo followed gurgled softly, half-choked by the snow. They had to traverse it a few times, but it was comfortable enough since the hunters had laid rough planks of wood or flat stones to facilitate the crossing. Thus they reached the hunters’ shelter.

Thorin knew it quite well, since he enjoyed hunting like most of the Durins did - Dís above all. The shelter was always kept in order by the hunters to serve them in need - to take some rest, meet other parties, offer some cover during a sudden storm. It was a simple stone hut, as far as possible from the intricacy of Khazâd architecture. Three walls were built with big uncut stones, piled according to their natural shape and dark with moss. The roof was made from sturdy branches and turf, and it was changed every year - during Spring and Summer grass and flowers grew on it, now it was layered with snow.

The hut was open on his fourth side, facing the brook and the path. Animals did not enter it, for the odour of the hunters and past killings kept them at bay. Two old firs stood before the opening, so that snow and rain almost did not enter the hut, and the ground was always quite dry though cold. A party of ten or more could fit inside; there was a large hearth circled with stones and a hole in the middle of the roof to drive the smoke away, but nothing else.

Thorin looked at Bilbo, wondering if the setting would prove too bare and uncomfortable for the hobbit. He saw him inspecting the hut with his hands planted at his waist.

“See, there’s already plenty of dried wood for the fire!” the melekûn exclaimed, pointing to the wood stacked in a corner. “Can we use it?”

Thorin’s lips twitched in an half-smile.

“I doubt the hunters will refuse the King’s son.”

“Don’t be so full of yourself,” Bilbo reproached him, though his eyes were bright with mirth. “Or I shall keep the food all to myself. And who says I won’t do it anyway? This should be my reward, after all.”

“I remember that you once confessed that you find pleasure in serving food to others, though not as much as eating it yourself. Shall I hope that you’ll spare some for me, if only to allow yourself such enjoyment?”

“You sweet-tongued rascal,” the melekûn murmured, looking at him with unmistakable fondness. “Build the fire then, I’ll put out the food and the drinks.”

Thus, while Thorin worked the fire to a bright warming flame, Bilbo chose a flat rock to display the contents of their bag. Although the prince had carried one of them, Bilbo had not allowed him to take a look inside, eager as ever to surprise the dwarf with his choice of food. A green cloth was laid on their small table, followed by bowls and bundles, and two little wooden cups which Bilbo immediately filled.

“Come, sit down and drink this,” he said, offering one of the cups to Thorin. It was soft as cream and it tasted like spiced milk. It felt warm in Thorin’s throat and down to his chest and stomach. “We call it _eggnog_ in the Shire. It’s mainly made with eggs, sugar, milk. I used nutmeg and cinnamon, and added some of the liquor sold in Dale - Bombur suggested I use it to make it warmer. I think he tried my recipe with different ingredients and was a little tipsy by the end of the day.”

“I cannot blame him,” Thorin admitted, licking away the remnants of cream on the cup’s brim.

“Here, here, now the pie,” Bilbo continued, suddenly in a flutter, “this is made with meat and ale like the usual pies eaten here in Erebor, but I added mushroom and thyme to the rabbit meat.”

The pie was excellent and the walk had sharpened Thorin’s appetite. He would have gladly eaten the pie by the handful, but he used the wooden knife and fork Bilbo had provided him with, well-aware that the melekûn would appreciate the effort. While he was cleaning his bowl from the last pieces of pastry and rabbit, he said casually:

“You’re aware of the Mahalmerag feast in two weeks.”

“Oh everyone is talking about it,” Bilbo said lightly. “I didn’t know dwarves were so fond of Yule, but I’m glad of it. It used to be my favourite celebration of the whole year before...well, Gandalf always makes sure to pass by when Yule comes and we have a proper little feast with plenty of food, candles, mistletoe and holly for the mantelpiece and the doors and windows, and obviously a Yule log. I’m looking forward to discovering how it is celebrated here in Erebor.”

“It’s also my father’s birthday, and the King’s birthday is as well cherished as Midwinter.”

“Now all the preparations make sense! I guessed that the King would play an important part in the celebrations, but I didn’t know. I’ve seen dwarves polishing statues and carvings almost everywhere and I know that wagons loaded with food come from Dale everyday for the many feasts which will be held in the Mountain. I’ve heard much talk at your father’s table about the clothes and jewels which will be worn at the King’s feast. Guests from Greenwood and Dale will be here, won’t they? And Gandalf as well!”

“Yes, Tharkûn promised to be back for the Mahalmerag. It will be the first time he’s come to Erebor so late into Winter - and now I know why, for he used to be in the West for Yule,” Thorin murmured, while Bilbo nodded and filled their bowls with roasted potatoes covered in rosemary, creamy goat cheese, and salt. “Thranduil will be there as well,” the dwarf added with a grimace, “and he will be as annoying as possible. Then some of the oldest and most respectable men of Dale, though not their leader - Dale-people celebrate Yule as well and the Lord of Dale will be expected to be there. But he will send some of his sons and daughters and nephews. I don’t think my cousin Dain will be with us this year, but a delegation from the Iron Hills will be here in a few days. And obviously all the court will be at my father’s feast.”

“Oh my, it sounds very formal...” Bilbo commented, gulping down another mouthful of potatoes.

“You’ll be there as well,” Thorin stated.

“What? No, I mean,” the melekûn frowned and put his bowl down on the stone. “I mean, I’m not sure I should be there. Should I?”

“My father called you Khazâd-bâhu,” the prince reminded to him, “and rest assured that you would have been invited to the feast anyway, since you were already the King’s guest. Surely you cannot have thought that you would celebrate the Mahalmerag outside the court,” Thorin added, suspecting that Master Baggins might have been invited to some smaller party, for example by his friends the toymakers.

And he was probably right, judging from the melekûn’s blush.

“I haven’t accepted any invitation yet!” he said quickly. “Master Bofur said that I’d probably be invited to the King’s feast, but I thought...”

“What? That you would rather be elsewhere?” Thorin snapped, barely refraining from saying _be with Master Bofur_.

“I thought that I’d feel alone at the court,” Bilbo answered. His voice was even, but he held Thorin’s gaze with a fierce eye. “But I’ve been reconsidering my opinion since I had your family for tea. You’re not as bad as I thought,” he concluded, a little haughtily.

Thorin dropped his eyes to the small raspberry tart Bilbo was cutting into large slices. He sighed and brushed his thumb over the melekûn’s knuckles, white from the strength he was putting into holding the knife.

“You don’t need to feel alone.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to answer, but he closed it again. Thorin wondered if he should have said more, or less; then the melekûn spoke again and it was in a light-hearted tone.

“I heard that the King’s Mahalmerag feast always culminates in dancing. I don’t know anything about dwarf dances, so you’ll have to tell me everything about them. We hobbits love to dance, and I do not intend to stay back and watch the others have all the fun.”

“I’m not a very good dancer,” Thorin confessed, feeling strangely shy. “Fíli is far better than me...but you’ll need clothes. No, don’t look at me like that. Frerin won’t have any hand in it this time and you won’t have to threaten any dressmaker. I’ll take care of it and we’ll have lessons for your manners.”

“What of my manners?” Bilbo piped in. “I have been told that they’re _exquisite_ ,” he said, puffing out his chest and trying to look absolutely proper. Unfortunately the picture was ruined by the slice of raspberry tart - the second one - he was still holding in his hand. Thorin tried not to chuckle.

“Yet you don’t know what the court expects on Mahalmerag day. Trust me, and you shall be the most admired melekûn King Thráin’s court has ever seen.”

“You say that only because there has never been another melekûn at your father’s court,” Bilbo pointed out, but he was smiling nonetheless.

“Most. Admired _._ ” Thorin repeated, smiling back.

“Fine, fine. I’ll leave to you to instruct me on this Mahalmerag,” the melekûn accepted, rolling his eyes.

 

They concluded their lunch with some roasted apples covered in almonds and maple syrup, finished off the eggnog, then smothered the fire. They were warm from the time spent beside the flames as well as from the drink, and they returned to the route at a lazy pace - though they would have to hurry later, for the days had grown shorter and the light would fade soon enough.

They had just left the hut when a change in the wind brought fresh snow falling from the sky. Thorin saw Bilbo look up, eyes bright and cheeks rosy, and capture one tiny flake with his tongue, utterly delighted. The sight held such power over Thorin that - as the foal under too heavy bridles - his heart bucked and tossed.

He bent down and collected a handful of snow. He threw it at the melekûn, thus initiating something he had not done for years. Bilbo blinked in shock when the snow ball hit his shoulder.

“You aren’t serious. You’re a prince and I am a respectable gentle-hobbit...oh, bother!”

The melekûn’s snowball was very well-aimed and reached Thorin’s nose. Munching half-melted snow, Thorin tried to clean his face, while he pondered the opportunity of explaining to Bilbo that he had not really intended to initiate any snow-battle.

It was clearly too late, for the melekûn played dirty and did not wait Thorin’s turn at throwing, but rather scored another point with a snowball that hit Thorin’s chest. From then on, the battle intensified. Snowballs were thrown from behind the trunk of the old firs, boulders, and rowan bushes. Sometimes Thorin was still pressing snow into his left hand, and Bilbo was already tormenting him with a little handful of snow. The melekûn was swift and quiet, and could creep behind Thorin’s back just for the pleasure of plastering some snow against the back of his head. He had good aim too, but Thorin took some revenge on Bilbo’s tricks when he caught him a moment before the melekûn could manage another victory. It was easy to lift up the melekûn by his waist, until he had him back to chest, his naked feet wiggling in mid-air.

“You mischievious little thing,” Thorin panted, for he had run after Bilbo through the grove. “I shall bury you in snow, since you love it so much.”

Bilbo wiggled and tried to slip from his hold, but he could not because he was laughing too hard and he only slapped Thorin’s arm around his waist.

“Put me down, brute, put me down!” Bilbo guffawed.

“Ask for mercy,” Thorin growled, pretending to be furious and failing - a deep chuckle left his mouth, and he felt Bilbo’s damp hair tickling his nose.

“Mercy then, I ask for mercy!” the melekûn said breathlessly.

Thorin put him down and Bilbo turned to look at him. The melekûn was clearly on the verge of saying something clever for he opened his mouth and his eyes were alight with hilarity. Thorin, whose arm was still around Master Baggins’ waist, instinctively pressed it against the melekûn’s back, bringing him closer. A flash of awareness - awareness of the weight of Thorin’s arm and the closeness of their bodies - came into Bilbo’s eyes. The prince’s arm dropped.

“What would they say if they saw us?” Bilbo commented, his tone still cheerful - but not careless, as if a note of thoughtfulness had suddenly crept into it.

 _Yes, what would they say?_ Thorin wondered, his jaw-line tightening. He let Bilbo sweep away the snow from his overcoat and his fur with small strokes and taps of his hands. Thorin noticed how the melekûn was very attentive to avoid touching his hair, aware that the gesture would have crossed the boundaries between them. Oh, Thorin son of Thráin had never been so sharply aware of those boundaries as he was then, with Bilbo Baggins brushing the snow from his clothes to make him presentable, his hands like small, industrious birds pecking at the strings of Thorin’s heart.

“Now you look like a prince again,” Bilbo announced, taking a step back.

“Let me,” Thorin replied, taking a step forward.

The melekûn did not move, nor did he say anything. He simply allowed Thorin to do what he had done for him, brushing the snow from his clothes and Dís’s fur cape. The dwarf knew that his touches were far blunter than Bilbo’s had been, but Bilbo did not complain at all.

“Am I respectable again?” he only asked, when Thorin retreated.

The prince nodded, earning a swift smile from Bilbo.  

They walked under the falling snow and slipped back into talking with the utmost naturalness. Thorin felt the vague need to be quiet and think to put the facts into order, but he could not really do it, not when Bilbo cajoled him into chatting without any apparent effort. So Thorin talked for it pleased him as it pleased the melekûn, discussing the different meanings of the Yule festivities, his brother’s propensity for pranks, and the different roles the Thain and the Mayor of Michel Delving played in the Shire’s social and political life.

Snow kept falling slowly though constantly, and the tiny flakes did not bother their walk. They were met by a small party of hunters making their way back to Erebor with rabbits and pheasants piled on their sled. The hunters bowed to the prince and Thorin asked them about their hunting. One of them was an old experienced hunter who sometimes accompanied the royals in their hunting and he talked a little with the prince, praising Thorin’s skills with the bow to the other hunters. When Thorin assured them that he was not in need of their services, the hunters took their leave and preceded them on the route. They were soon out of sight and earshot.

Not much later they set their eyes on the grove’s end and the staircase which would lead them back into Erebor. By then they had ended up talking about Master Bofur’s mechanical toys. Thorin was annoyed by the melekûn’s unbounded admiration for the toymaker’s inventions, and was answering in huffs and rumbles. He was trying to think of some criticism on Master Bofur’s creations, but he was hindered by the fact that the toys which had been gifted to Fíli by the new shop were truly remarkable - he had to admit as much.

Mulling over it, Thorin did not notice that Bilbo had stopped at first. When he did, he walked back to where Bilbo stood.

“What is it?” he asked, frowning.

Was it the cold, the tiredness, something he had said? - but Bilbo had been talking, not him. The melekûn looked at him with an expression, for once, completely unreadable. Thorin felt his frown deepen and it was then that Bilbo placed his hands on Thorin’s chest, fingers well splayed over the fur.

Bilbo shifted closer in a movement that Thorin thought incredibly slow, for he was under the impression that it could have been interrupted at any moment. In truth only a few instants had passed since the moment the hobbit had put his hands on Thorin’s chest and the moment he put his mouth to his.

 _He’s on his tiptoes_ , Thorin thought incoherently.

Bilbo’s lips were slightly chipped by the cold air, but his breath was warm and sweet from the eggnog. It tickled Thorin’s mouth and the feeling was so intense that the dwarf did not realise that he had closed his eyes. At least until the pressure of Bilbo’s mouth faded and Thorin had to open his eyes to find a very red-cheeked hobbit peering up at him. Thorin felt an almost incontrollable impulse to touch his mouth, to trace the lips Bilbo had kissed to evoke again their pressure and warmth, but he could not bring himself to do it while Bilbo watched him with slightly unfocused eyes.

They resumed their pace, so close that they could have been holding hands - they did not though and Thorin reproached himself for having thought of it.

Snow kept falling throughout their walk back to Erebor.


	13. 'Ubzar

Blue was the most common colour and it came in different shades - the pale blue-grey of chalcedony, the turquoise well-loved among ladies, several blends of blue and green ranging from the darkest tourmaline to the brightest quartz, and obviously the dark sapphire blue Thorin preferred. But there were also garments in red and green; blacks, browns, and greys were represented as well, though Master Baggins had already refused to wear such colours.

“Aren’t they too grim for a feast?” he had asked. Thorin had raised his eyebrow. “Oh fine, you dwarves have different ideas concerning fashion and I’m indulging your whim...” Bilbo had said, waving his hand, “...but I won’t wear black for Yule. Nor brown.”

Thorin had sighed and put aside the black velvet overcoat. _A pity_ , for it was a neat thing with a complex embroidery in silver thread running down its long sleeves, and moonstones were set on the collar.

Yet Thorin had promised that he would not press his taste upon Bilbo. It was the second clause of their agreement, the first being the absence of dressmakers. After his far from pleasant experience with the Master of the Tailors’ Guild and his closer associates, the melekûn had firmly turned down the offer of a second meeting with any of the dressmakers who served the royal family. Not even Thorin’s assertion that he would personally take care that no one offended his hobbit sensibilities had been enough to change Bilbo’s mind.

So Thorin had proposed a deal - Dís had grinned at the news that her most uncompromising brother was the one calling for a _compromise_!

“Since you wish to not suffer at the hands of dressmakers, I’ll have as many suitable clothes as possible brought to your rooms and you’ll be able to try them on at your leisure,” Thorin had offered.

“And what about you?” Bilbo had asked lazily.

“Me? I said I would take care of it,” Thorin had reckoned. “I’ll have to help you with your choice.”

“As long as you do not bully me,” the melekûn had pointed out, wiggling his finger at him.

 _And now he’s the one bullying me_ , Thorin thought, far more amused than he should have been.

He had spent the last hour complying with Bilbo’s requests, handing him one garment after another and putting up with his prattling about what was held as fashionable in the Shire. In other words Thorin had been playing the valet to Master Baggins’ caprices, short only of helping him with the actual getting into and out of the clothes. He had always thought the melekûn utterly particular about his garments and felt that what was going on in his rooms merely confirmed his first impression.

The clothes had been brought to Thorin’s quarters rather than Master Baggins’ and the arrangement had pleased Bilbo as well as the dressmakers - sparing both sides a most inopportune and embarrassing meeting. Thorin had personally given the first instructions to the dressmakers, suggesting styles and colours, and picking out of their supplies what he deemed more becoming for the melekûn. Then he had given the order for a silver mirror screen to be carried to his bedroom. It had been one of Thrór’s courtship gifts for Thorin’s grandmother - a kingly gift with its frame wrought in red and white gold, ambers and fire-opals set into the intricate diamond patterns running all over the edges.

A couple of times his grandmother had caught him staring at his reflection into the mirror.

“Stop musing about your appearance, Thorin. A long beard, some scars, and a crown will make a King out of you, regardless of the colour of your eyes - a King has no business with being pretty.”

On occasion Thorin wondered if he would have developed Frerin’s devotion to his looks but for his grandmother’s stern approach to the subject. Not that Thorin was completely oblivious about his appearance; on the contrary, he was perfectly aware that he had to be careful with his persona as the King’s heir. Plus, he had his reasons to be especially conscious of his beard. Yet he had learnt to judge his look in terms of decorum and rank rather than beauty, therefore it was strange to have the mirror in his room and even stranger to offer it to the melekûn.     

His bedroom thus turned into a changing room, Thorin had let Bilbo examine the clothes displayed on the bed and the chairs for as long as he had wished. Master Baggins had inspected the garments almost fastidiously, inquiring about weavings and decorations, fiddling with buttons and straps, sleeves and laces. Patiently Thorin had answered all the questions and only when the melekûn had turned an expectant gaze on him, had Thorin invited Bilbo to stand on the rug before the fire and shed the upper layers of his clothes.

While the melekûn - _slightly flushed_ , Thorin had noticed - had been stripping down to his trousers and his thin white shirt, the prince had put another log into the fire, so that the room had soon become warm enough to keep Bilbo from trembling in his light attire.

“Oh bother,” the melekûn puffed, craning his neck and trying to get a look at his back. “I can’t reach the silly thing!” His hand patted helplessly at the light brown leather of the back-buttoned jerkin, trying to reach the small silver clasp between his shoulders. Although he had managed to put the jerkin on and fasten it without help, unhooking the clasps was proving more difficult. “Why did they not put the clasps on the front?!”

“Because it would have ruined the front look,” Thorin replied.

Bilbo, who had been twisting his head and huffing, stilled. He peered up at the dwarf, apparently rather unsurprised - _and unbothered_ , Thorin grimly added in his mind - to find him close all of sudden. Thorin had been watching Bilbo’s struggle with the jerkin from afar, looking upon glowing cheeks and tousled hair. Then he had closed the distance between them in a couple of hasty strides and put his hand on the jerkin’s front.

“You see, these are not clothes made for riding into battle or going about your daily business. These are court clothes, made for appearing before the King,” the prince explained.

“You mean that they are as uncomfortable as they can get,” Bilbo snorted.

Still he did not back away from the weight of Thorin’s hand on his chest. The dwarf smirked, and he lazily fingered the leather scales running over the jerkin’s shoulders and front, that turned Master Baggins into a strange-feathered bird.

“Being uncomfortable is the highest ranks’ privilege,” Thorin replied, tugging at the jerkin to adjust it over the melekûn’s frame. “The clasps on your back suggest that you can have a servant’s help to dress and undress.”

“Being able to reach your buttons must be _so_ low-class,” Bilbo muttered under his breath. “And this also explains the dressmakers’ penchant for handling their customers like puppets. Here’s the flaw in your plan though - I do _not_ have any servant. And I _won’t_ have it.”   

To his merit, Thorin did not even frown. He simply moved beside Bilbo and unclasped the jerkin.

“Let me,” he said, though he had already done the deed and the white of Master Baggins’ shirt was peeking out from the jerkin’s opening. “Take it off. It does not suit you.”

After a moment of hesitation that Thorin could read in the renewed stillness of his shoulders, Bilbo shrugged the jerkin off, murmuring his half-polite, half-sarcastic thanks for the dwarf’s help. Thorin cast the leather jerkin aside and picked up a doublet entirely embroidered with golden thread. The fine golden net gleamed against the dark cloth beneath and each golden button sported a small topaz.

“Far too precious for me,” Bilbo commented when Thorin handed him the doublet. “And look at how narrow the waist is!”

Still he tried it on, but even Thorin had to admit to himself that there was something most unconvincing about Master Baggins wearing such garments. He suspected that it had more to do with how uncomfortable Bilbo felt rather than with the clothes themselves. The thought did not sit well with the prince, since he was loath to make the melekûn feel uneasy - in fact the point was the very opposite.

“Now that I thought about it, the rule about being as uncomfortable as possible to show off your status does not seem to bother you - I mean, your clothes look mostly practical even while you’re keeping court with your father,” Bilbo said, turning right and left to spy his reflection in the mirror screen.

Thorin let his eyes roam over the melekûn, assessing the effect of the doublet on someone who would walk bare-footed before the King under the Mountain. _He looks only half-clothed_ , the prince thought. When Bilbo bent his head down to take a better look at the topaz buttons, Thorin’s gaze slipped on his nape, half-hidden by strands of brown hair. _A necklace or a high-necked blouse_ , he decided - for he wanted to know that soft velvet or cold silver would conceal Bilbo’s neck from prying eyes, hiding the marks he would leave if only...

“Thorin?”

“I don’t have to prove my rank.”

“Neither do I,” Bilbo replied, meeting Thorin’s gaze in the mirror.

For a moment the dwarf suspected that the trail of his thoughts had been discovered. But the hobbit’s gaze dropped before the blush could reach Thorin’s cheeks - he was acting like a dwarfling around his first crush, always on the verge of losing the thread of their dialogue to lazy notions of kisses and sweet nothings. If Thorin had known such a concept, he would have understood that he was day-dreaming, and that it was making him fidgety and taciturn.

Annoyed with himself as he was, Thorin ended up being a little too brusque when he helped Bilbo out of the doublet. Not that the melekûn had required his help, but it was the nearest - though pointless - task at hand. Mahal knew Thorin _did_ need to do something with himself rather than brooding over Master Baggins’ ostensible forgetfulness. It took Bilbo’s hand on his wrist to snatch Thorin’s thoughts back to the present.

“Why are you doing this, Thorin?”

Bilbo’s small fingers were around his wrist and the prince wondered if his pulse was giving his weakness away. With the doublet half-way down from his shoulders, the melekûn looked at him inquisitively; yet the touch of his hand proved soothing enough to allow Thorin to get his wits back and keep his voice even when he asked:

“What do you mean?”

A light pinch on the skin of Thorin’s inner wrist.

“ _This_. Helping me with the clothes for the Mahalmerag and looking so concerned about it,” the melekûn said patiently, as if he was only indulging Thorin - as if he could not have spoken about anything else.

Thorin’s mind risked spinning again to other unpleasant thoughts, but this time Bilbo’s gentle touch was pinning him in place. So the answer came easily to the dwarf’s mouth.

“I want you to feel comfortable among my people. I want you to enjoy the feast and have a good time. You smile as if you do not believe me,” Thorin pointed out, reproachfully. The melekûn’s smile did not fade, but it lost some of its mockery and scepticism, and became kinder.

“I have never known you as one keen on _having a good time_ \- I didn’t even imagine that you could use such words.”

“I may have borrowed them from my brother,” Thorin admitted, rolling his eyes, “but the idea is there nonetheless. Will you hold it against me? The Mahalmerag is one of the greatest feasts we celebrate here in Erebor and the whole Mountain will rejoice. I don’t want you to feel excluded and out of place, I want everyone at court to see with their own eyes why we call you Khazâd-bâhu. I know that I haven’t always done my best to make you feel welcome here - let me repent.”

“I don’t care for the court’s approval,” the melekûn protested. “Yet I do want to feel among friends.”

“You are among friends. And as your friends we want you to look your best for the Mahalmerag. Wouldn’t you do the same for me?” Thorin inquired, tilting his head.

“If I took you to the Lithe dances, I would be content with putting a flower crown upon your head,” Bilbo replied, one corner of his mouth twitching upward in a vague smile.

“Flowers,” the dwarf huffed, earning a fond slap on the back of his hand.

“Surely they’d be lighter than all these gem-stuffed, trinket-bursting garbs,” Bilbo commented, taking his hand away from Thorin’s wrist and wriggling out of the doublet. “How can you even manage to find your handkerchief in there? I swear I have never seen clothes with so many hidden pockets, pouch-heavy girdles, intricate folds. I’m not surprised that you kept my buttons for so many days, I bet you didn’t even know where they had ended up!”

Thorin said nothing to that, for it reminded him of their stroll through the grove to the hunters’ hut and what had come of it - _what_ , indeed. Master Baggins had not spoken of it, thus compelling Thorin to do the same; surely he could not ask for an explanation when one had not been freely offered.

The prince took the doublet from Bilbo’s hands and replaced it with a simpler green tunic. The colour seemed to please the melekûn; he patted the green cloth and brushed his fingers against the embroidered golden knots running over the loose sleeves, before lifting the tunic over his head.

“You may help,” he suggested, casting Thorin a glance through the mirror.

The prince complied without a word, grabbing the tunic’s hem and dragging it down and past Bilbo’s head, pausing just to check that the melekûn had put his arms through the sleeves. He fancied that he could almost feel the heat radiating from Bilbo’s body, flushed as he was by all the dressing and undressing going on. His nose caught the soapy scent of hair recently washed - oh, he had not noticed that Master Baggins had reached him in his quarters with his skin still damp and soft from a bath. A careless movement would have sent the melekûn right into his arms with his back plastered to Thorin’s chest, but Bilbo, for all his thoughtless chuckles and small talk, still had not crossed the thin line which cut so deeply into Thorin’s restraint.  

As soon as the tunic was donned Thorin took a step back, drawing his breath. Green, Thorin had to concede, suited Master Baggins. And the melekûn knew it, going by the satisfied smile shining in the mirror. The twin geometrical brooch, all gold and white gems, applied on the shoulders would answer the call for something precious to go with the grass-green wool.

“A cinnamon bun for your thoughts,” Bilbo offered all of sudden.

“Here in Erebor we offer gems,” Thorin grunted.

“You’ve far too many gems to care about them,” the melekûn replied. “And I’ve noticed that you’re quite fond of my cinnamon buns, so I may have chosen the right coin for my trade. I’d have them ready for tea, warm from the oven and sticky with glaze; I could use walnut for a change, and make you my special tea blend with ginger, rose, cardamom, almonds, and another couple of secret ingredients.” Then Bilbo stopped, scrunched up his nose and asked: “Is it working? For I fear I’ve just made myself impatient for tea time,” he confessed, patting his stomach thoughtfully.

“This is what you get from trying to entice me with your offer of food,” the dwarf reproached him, earning giggles from Bilbo.

Thorin’s annoyance grew sharper for he could not help finding Master Baggins’ lack of embarrassment irksome. After all it was only the third day after their walk, the memory of their kiss could not have faded from the melekûn’s memory so soon. _Could it_? Given Master Baggins’ light-hearted demeanour in his presence, it suddenly seemed possible.

Not that Thorin wished Bilbo to feel ill at ease in his presence, nor would he have rejoiced in being avoided. He did not want the melekûn to avert his glances or fall silent in his presence. Actually Thorin had even braced himself against the possibility that Master Baggins would back away and strengthened his arguments against such an outcome. The fact that Bilbo did not even attempt to look a little shyer than usual, a little withdrawn in his thoughts, baffled Thorin to no end.

He thought that the melekûn should have had the decency of looking a little bashful at least. Had he not kissed him out of the blue? Had he not closed his hands on the lapels of Thorin’s fur-lined coat and tugged to have his attention and his mouth as well? Had he not kissed Thorin under the snow?

Y _ou would not guess it from his behaviour_ Thorin thought sourly. The melekûn had gone so far as to kiss the heir to the throne under the Mountain and he had done it as if it was the simplest trick up his sleeve. Thorin despised the idea of feeling so miserably mistreated. He felt that his pride had been hurt and his rank disregarded, but he would have been glad to overlook Master Baggins’ breach of the boundaries between them for the sake of their friendship and the partiality - yes, Thorin was dwarf enough to accept that - he bore for the melekûn. But Bilbo had not asked for his forgiveness, trampling upon Thorin’s most considerate thoughts.       

Thorin did not pretend to _talk_ about it - in fact part of him dreaded the possibility of speaking openly of the kiss. Yet he would have welcomed any allusion, glance, touch which could leave no doubt about Bilbo being affected. Why should Bilbo not be affected? Thorin could reckon that the kiss had been a simple one, hardly outstanding in terms of ardour or length. The heat had been in the prince’s mind more than on his lips, neither could he deny that it had lasted just a few moments.

And - this prickled Thorin’s self-esteem in a way he was unwilling to acknowledge - Master Baggins had not made a second attempt. _Yet_. Due to the melekûn’s unexpected comfortableness with him after the deed, they had not missed their Khuzdul lessons nor the other small occasions of meeting and talking. Plenty of chances had been offered, but Bilbo had snubbed them one by one with an effortless buoyancy that was a torn in Thorin’s side.

He had begun to suspect that kissing might be a lighter affair in the Shire than it was in Erebor. Khazâd did not regard kissing as any kind of promise or scandalous exposure of one’s feeling; touching one’s hair was still considered a more intimate gesture and other displays were preferred to show one’s affection in public or to make a claim on a lover. This did not mean that Khazâd were indifferent to the meanings of a kiss - especially when the one being kissed was a prince who had never devoted much time to the pleasures of the body and of the heart.

Thorin unfortunately remembered how he had almost indulged in idle, meaningless kissing with Master Baggins in the Shire. Then he had been worried about misleading Bilbo, whereas now he was bothered by the idea that the melekûn might have offered him the same kind of whimsical kisses he had been willing to bestow at the time. After all, it was possible that melekûnh were more indifferent to these matters than he had thought. Disturbing thoughts about Master Baggins going around the Shire kissing hobbits at his leisure, never dwelling on his deeds but always flying from one dalliance to the next one like a busy bee, turned Thorin’s sullen mood into positive glowering.

As if this was not enough, the necessity of supervising the business of Master Baggins’ clothes for the Mahalmerag was exasperating. Not only were they completely alone in Thorin’s quarters, but the recurrent chances of proximity and touch made the melekûn’s defection even harder to stand - how could he appear in such a good humour when Thorin was brooding? How could Bilbo smile and pat his arm with unashamed fondness, and be so callous to Thorin’s discomfort?

He should have offered an explanation, charmingly struggling and stuttering to make Thorin understood;  somehow _hinting_ to the damned kiss. Or at least he should have been polite enough to kiss Thorin again, rather than leaving him in the dark about what was going on.

“You could just ask for it, you know.”  

The surcoat was thick with dark gems and fur, and it had a purple gleam in the firelight. Garnets, jets, and dark amethysts were set in hematite and blackened silver, shimmering like fish-scales when they caught the light. Wolf-fur, so black that it looked bluish, fell upon the shoulders.

It was as far from the melekûn’s usual style of clothing as it could get, and still Thorin felt an odd thrill at seeing Bilbo in such a different attire. The garment was too dark and heavy, and probably too precious as well, for the melekûn; but it pleased Thorin’s eye as some bizarre sights sometimes do, for it teased him with the stark contrast between the angular elegance and dusky colours of the surcoat, and Bilbo’s soft features.

So absorbed was Thorin in contemplation that it took him a few moments to absorb the melekûn’s words.

“What?!” he squeaked, most clumsily.

He was stunned at how throaty his voice sounded, as if he had not used it for quite a long while. Even more surprising was the knowing smile he found on Bilbo’s mouth when he looked at him in the mirror. As soon as the melekûn noticed that his amusement had not gone unnoticed, he broke into giggles in the most infuriatingly charming way. Thorin frowned though he knew that his scowl would be too conspicuous in the mirror compared to Master Baggins’ merriment, but it served to sober the melekûn up.

“You should ask, instead of glaring,” Bilbo said, considerably more serious.

“I’m not glaring,” Thorin replied, unnerved at how childish it sounded.

“Oh but you are,” the melekûn replied, nonplussed. “Ask me.”

Thorin’s nostrils flared and he felt an angry retort on his tongue. But Bilbo’s head turned ever so slightly toward him, and they were no longer holding each other’s gaze through the mirror.

“Kiss me,” Thorin growled.

He felt Bilbo’s round cheek heating up against his palm and belatedly realised that he had cupped it a moment before, pulling the melekûn into the kiss. It was, at first, all about crashing his lips upon Bilbo’s and hardly about proper kissing, for Thorin’s bruised pride demanded such vehemence. He felt that there should have been more surprise on Bilbo’s part, more disbelief at the idea that Thorin might want to kiss him; in fact the melekûn’s smugness was as impressive as it was maddening. So the prince did his best to smother some of it. If he had lost his chance to surprise Master Baggins with a kiss, he would at least take him off guard with its fierceness.

Bilbo did, indeed, stiffen at the assault. His lips were obstinately sealed beneath Thorin’s mouth and he gave a stifled _umph_ when the dwarf pressed the tip of his tongue against their seam. A thumb pushed beneath the melekûn’s chin allowed Thorin to urge Bilbo’s face up, angling it to deepen the kiss. The warmth of Bilbo’s cheek in his palm was so intense and tempting that Thorin moved his lips there for a few instants, mouthing his way from the cheekbone to the corner of Bilbo’s lips. He felt the melekûn’s breath falter and took his chance to slide his tongue into his mouth.

For a brief - glorious - moment Master Baggins sucked on his tongue, but then he squirmed and turned until he was properly facing Thorin, no longer kissing him.

“You should work on the asking part,” Bilbo murmured, less dreamily than Thorin had expected looking at his blown-out pupils and red cheeks. _More kissing is required then_ , the prince thought, _to make him less eager to fuss about such details._ Yet Thorin took pleasure in the quiet prim tone the melekûn used with him. “Yours was an order,” Bilbo declared, sending a tingle up Thorin’s spine.

Oh the delights of being bossed around by a gentle-hobbit! 

Thorin grunted more for the sake of his part in the play than out of annoyance. He ducked his head again and tried to capture the melekûn’s lips as he had done the first time. But Bilbo would have none of that and he turned his head away, casting the prince a very severe glance out of the corner of his eye. Thorin rolled his eyes, yet he did not insist and went as far as to put his hands behind his back. Looming over the melekûn, he brought his mouth as close to Bilbo’s cheek as he could without actually kissing it.

“May I?” he asked in a rumble, lowering his voice - for he _did_ know how it affected the melekûn.

Bilbo’s small hands cupped his face and dragged him down to smash his mouth against his. They both grinned at the bumping of lips against lips, but then Bilbo’s lithe fingers gently scraped Thorin’s beard and the dwarf heard himself purring into the touch. The melekûn promptly swallowed the sound, opening his mouth beneath Thorin’s; while the dwarf took care to linger on the lips, enflaming them with little nips until Bilbo whined with impatience.

“May I?” Thorin asked, enclosing the melekûn’s face in his hands and mirroring Bilbo’s gesture.

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo replied, sounding extremely annoyed. Thorin smiled against his mouth, and finally pushed his tongue in.

Now that they were kissing it seemed absurd that they had not done it before.

Thorin had never doted too much upon kissing, though it usually did not displease him, but _this_ he likened to an unforeseen grade. The absence of beard did not bother him and only later would he muse upon it; then Thorin would also reflect upon the strangeness of finding pleasure where he had not been expecting it. Not that he had been completely oblivious to the tension building between him and Master Baggins, nor to the degree of familiarity they had reached over time. Even before Bilbo had kissed him under the snow, Thorin had known that the melekûn had been ensnaring his attention, binding him in ways the prince had been unable to fight.     

The point was that Bilbo was unexpected for he had never matched the standards Thorin had been taught to honour and seek in others. Thus he challenged his judgement and baffled him constantly. Thorin had never thought that such a creature could exist, neither had he guessed that he could appreciate its existence.

Yet Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was there, teaching him one or two things about kisses and Thorin had never been known to be a recalcitrant pupil.

“May I?” he kept asking, each time they emerged for breath.

Bilbo now laughed and now puffed, always returning the kiss with his already swollen lips.

“How polite of you,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the corner of Thorin’s mouth.

The dwarf bit it playfully and dragged his lips on the thumb’s length, drinking in the sight of Bilbo’s eyes darkening at the game.

“Some of your unbearable politeness must have rubbed off on me.”

“Unbearable?” Bilbo quirked an eyebrow and denied the next kiss.

“Now, Master Baggins, it’s in your power to make yourself bearable,” Thorin suggested, half-closing his eyes and tilting his head to invite another kiss.

“Don’t look so coquettish,” the melekûn reproached him. “You should be forbidden to make such eyes at me.”

“Ah, the _striking blue eyes_ of your tale!”

“Please, you’ll never let it go, will you? It’s bad enough that they should be so pretty,” Bilbo mused, then pressed a quick kiss to Thorin’s mouth as if he wished to erase the memory of what he had just said.

Thorin was much too interested in the kiss to protest, but he was oddly torn about the melekûn’s words, for he remembered his grandmother’s reprimand, but he could not help feeling flattered at being called _pretty_. Where else could he have found such a word for him but on Master Baggins’ ever surprising lips? He felt obliged to indulge in those lips, dragging their kiss on until he had no breath in his lungs.

When they both stood panting, Bilbo’s hands on his shoulders and his still on the melekûn’s cheeks, it was pleasant to feel the light weight of Bilbo’s head tugged under his chin. Thorin’s eyes ran to the mirror and the sight he found there caught his breath.

It was alien and - for some moments - beyond his understanding.

Once, in his grandfather’s times, he and Dwalin had gone swimming in one of the subterranean pools hidden in the depth of the Mountain. Although some of them were well-renowned among Erebor people and King Thrór himself loved to bathe in their cold waters, Dwalin had proposed they find themselves an undisclosed lake for their sport. Thorin remembered the dark, silken look of the vast underground lake they had discovered and the sharp chill he had felt in his bones when he had lowered himself into its water.

They had swum in awed silence for some time before Thorin had realised that his feet were farther from the lake bottom than he had thought. He had been, even then, a good swimmer, though younger and less experienced, but he had been terrified by the realisation that he had never swum in such fathomless waters before and the he could not, in truth, tell how deep the lake went.

Only then had he learnt the true meaning of the word ‘ _ubzar_ , which was lower and deeper and heavier all in one word; he and Dwalin had named the lake _Abzârbuzrâ_ , the Deep Descent in the common tongue.  

He felt that with Bilbo he had pushed himself into deep water and Dwalin was not there to call him back to the rocky shore. Who was the dwarf who looked back at Thorin in the mirror? It was someone he was not well-acquainted with; a dwarf whose mouth and nose were daringly brushing among Bilbo’s hair, and whose arm was possessively wrapped around the melekûn’s shoulder. Even Master Baggins was another self, clad as he was in colours he had never worn before; a soft, wee thing swathed in hard gems, bold enough to kiss a prince.     

“A cinnamon bun, a kiss, or both for your thoughts,” Bilbo murmured against his throat.

“I was looking at us,” Thorin answered.

He saw the melekûn’s cheeks glow even brighter at his words. Then Bilbo hid his face in his tunic.

“I hope you’re pleased by how little respectable I look in dwarf clothes and with bruised lips,” he muttered into Thorin’s chest.

“Let me see,” the dwarf goaded him, tugging gently at Bilbo’s ear to make him turn his head.

The melekûn complied though he kept his cheek well-pressed against Thorin’s chest. Bilbo’s eyes were slightly glassy and the skin around his mouth was all pink. Without taking his eyes off the mirror, Thorin brought his thumb to the offended skin. It was warm and tender like some fruit left in the sun.

“It’s your beard,” Bilbo complained.

“Or your lack of it,” Thorin retorted. The melekûn made a face at that and Thorin chuckled. “Do not frown, Master Baggins. As offensive to your skin as my beard may be, it does not displease you if your caresses are anything to go by.”

“Oh mercy!” Bilbo moaned, covering his eyes with his hand and dragging his lower lip between his teeth. “You can’t _just_ talk about it.”

“Why not? Would you not hear what I have to say? Strange enough, for I remember you suggesting - most ardently in truth - that I should talk more.”

“I was referring to small talk,” the hobbit piped up, slightly piqued. “On proper subjects - like, let’s say, the weather.”

“Quite cold outside,” Thorin answered curtly, taking Bilbo’s hands in his and guiding them to his beard. He felt the melekûn’s fingertips rub tentatively at his jaw and he had to keep himself from leaning into the touch most shamelessly. “Snow everywhere,” Thorin murmured, feeling his voice catch slightly in his throat when Bilbo’s hold on his face became a little bolder.

The melekûn pressed his palms against his cheeks and let out a soft sigh. Then his fingers carded through the dark hair, around Thorin’s mouth and down his chin and throat. The dwarf felt his eyelids grow heavier; if he did not close his eyes it was only because he was unwilling to shut out the pleased look on Bilbo’s face.

“You were doing very well with your small talk,” the melekûn hummed, his nose barely brushing against Thorin’s.

“Liar,” the dwarf said in a gust of breath. “I’d do far better talking about your nimble fingers, Master Baggins. You’ve the hands of a burglar - so light and quick that one would never know when you’re feeling for the purse.” Bilbo let out a faint groan of protest and pinched Thorin’s beard. The dwarf turned his head to kiss the offending fingertips. “Still, they know how to hold fast - greedy, aren’t you?”At that the melekûn made to step back, but Thorin kept him in his arms and grinned. “Can’t you bear a little teasing? Come on, touch my beard at your pleasure and mine.”

“You’re the one being greedy,” Bilbo commented, though his hands returned to the prince’s beard.

Thorin could not deny it. There had been the possibility that the melekûn would feel put out by it; in fact it seemed that Bilbo was not only unconcerned by the beard, he was rather fascinated with it. It was a pleasant surprise for Thorin, one that roused his desire and made his reserve pale.

Part of his mind knew that letting the melekûn touch his beard so freely was supposed to be a meaningful act, since nothing concerning a dwarf’s beard is pointless. He should have probably warned Bilbo and reminded him that such touches were more intimate than their kisses, but he could not bring himself to speak, caught as he was in the bliss. None of Thorin’s past dalliances had ever given so much attention to his beard, maybe too self-conscious of its shortness and of the prince’s status to take pleasure in it. But Master Baggins petted his beard with an eagerness that made Thorin’s toes curl in his boots.   

“Trust me, I’m being very temperate,” the dwarf murmured, stroking Bilbo’s shoulders with what he felt to be a little too much energy.

He leant down to capture the melekûn’s mouth, revelling in its soft yielding accompanied by the scrape of Bilbo’s fingers on his beard. While they kissed, Thorin’s eyes flickered to the mirror once again. Although he had always been aware of the differences of customs and opinions between himself and Master Baggins, the sight of their embrace reminded him of the deep chasm separating them.

There was a softness to Bilbo’s features and limbs that Thorin had never seen in a dwarf. The melekûn’s skin bruised far more easily, with the exception of his feet - what an oddity that such comfort-loving folk should be provided with sturdy feet, made for wandering in spite of the hardness and coldness of the ground. One would expect them to grow the tenderest feet to trample upon pliable grass and the harmless flowers hobbits held so dear. Yet here he was, Bilbo Baggins who had crossed Middle Earth to knock on Erebor’s doors and teach Thorin that there was something unyielding and steadfast beneath his softness. Softness itself would have never attracted Thorin, strength he could find among his family and kin; it was the combination of the two that had caught his attention.

That and the charming little twitch Bilbo gave when the prince pushed his tongue deeper into his mouth. Thorin liked the sight well-enough and urged its repetition, thrusting between the melekûn’s lips. The grip on his beard tightened and then turned into a lazy caress - Thorin caught himself thinking that, another time, he would have gladly grown drowsy under such ministrations.

The sudden thought - _another time_ \- sent his mind spinning in a twirl of exhilaration and worry. So it was almost with relief that Thorin felt Bilbo back away, saving him from being overwhelmed.

“Oh dear me,” the melekûn murmured in what was probably trying to pass for a light-hearted tone, though there was a tremble in his voice betraying the seriousness of the instant. “My knees - I fear that you have turned them into jelly.”

The turn of words was unknown to Thorin, but he had grown used to Master Baggins’ penchant for odd imageries and this one was quite effective. Plus, some part of Thorin relished the idea of being responsible for the melekûn’s weak knees.   

“Here, let me sit down,” Bilbo said, sliding his hands down to Thorin’s chest and then urging him away.

The dwarf let himself be pushed and only watched as Bilbo reached for the armchair and slouched into it. The melekûn’s eyes fluttered close for a moment, then he looked at Thorin with a wavering smile.

“Just when I thought I had grown old and respectable,” he hummed, leaning his head against the back of the armchair and fixing his gaze onto the ceiling.

“I’m older than you,” the prince replied, remembering that they had had this conversation once - about how differently melekûnh and Khazâd aged, and about how Bilbo would look with grey hair.

“But hardly more respectable.”

Master Baggins’ thoughts were clearly following a different trail than Thorin’s and the prince should have bristled at the melekûn’s suggestion. Yet he could see that there was no reproach - and rather a good amount of satisfaction - in Bilbo’s words, at least judging by the way he was licking his reddened lips.

“You kissed me first,” Thorin retaliated though, while he sat in the other armchair facing the hobbit.

“Yes, I did,” Bilbo admitted after a short while. It was clear that propriety and smugness had fought for the upper hand in his mind, and the former had lost. “If I had left the matter to you, who knows how long I would have waited?”

The words struck Thorin. _How long has he been waiting?_ He felt annoyed as if Bilbo had kept a secret from him. He felt the frown starting on his forehead and he stroked the discarded clothes draped over the armrest, trying to clear his heart from the childish feeling of having been excluded from what was going on.

“So, cinnamon buns and...cardamom and grapefruit cake maybe? Or some dried figs dipped in honey.”

“What?” Thorin grunted, meeting Bilbo’s bright gaze.

“You’re having tea with me later, aren’t you?” the melekûn asked, tilting his head. He did not wait for Thorin’s answer though, but prattled on. “And we should really talk about these clothes,” he said, pinching the front of the surcoat. “I mean, can you really see me in these sorts of things? I can barely walk under all this weight and surely I look no better than a pelt mug covered in pearls and rubies. I promised you that I would put dwarf garments on for the Mahalmerag and I’m going to keep my word, but I’m sure we can find something better than this _dark-and-menacing_ kind of style - it’s not really me, you know? You should first teach me how to wave a battle-axe and yell threats, then I may even develop a taste for armour-like clothes,” he pointed out, making a face. Then he shot Thorin a little smile. “I’m sure I have seen something lovely though...it was a dark blue jacket, with puffy sleeves...” he made gestured in mid-air, trying to shape out the garment he was talking about while his eyes darted to the bed where the clothes laid scattered and upturned. “Oh my, I don’t see it now, but it must be hidden among other things. And there was also that doublet collar with some silver and little grey stones, which didn’t look too uncomfortable and surely wouldn’t buy a mill like other stuff you make me try on,” Bilbo said with a vaguely contemptuous sniff.

Thorin thought it wiser to keep to himself the fact that he was considering dressing Master Baggins in a certain something which would have been enough to buy all the mills in the Shire and some more. He said nothing and let the melekûn do the talking - actually it was strangely pleasant to be distracted from the kissing which had preceded this burst of words. The amiable, friendly atmosphere they had fallen into did not sit ill with Thorin.

“I have nothing against fur,” Bilbo was eager to state, “as long as it is not too dark in colour and not too much - they would take me for a puppy and Yavanna knows how many dwarves already consider me a child. You really wouldn’t think they could be so impertinent - patting my head and talking down at me as if I was a toddler or a half-wit! Maybe, maybe they would stop if they saw me clad in leather and metal...” the melekûn mused, but then he shook his head. “Oh, I don’t give a blackened fig for their opinion!” he declared loudly, before deflating in the armchair and looking cautiously at Thorin.

“I could teach you some threats in Khuzdul,” the prince proposed, aware that some feedback was required of him.

“Yes, please!” the melekûn replied, looking relieved at Thorin’s answer - as if he had doubted, for a fleeting moment, that the dwarf would speak to him. “Though almost everything in Khuzdul sounds like a threat to me, I’m sure that you dwarves could come out with some quite terrifying intimidations. After all the worst I have ever heard in the Shire had something to do with a cow’s horns and...oh, well, you don’t really need to know this,” he blurted out, embarrassed.

“I’m most interested in Shire swearing and threat customs,” Thorin pointed out. “At least it would resolve a long-time quarrel between me and Dwalin - he believes that there must be something wicked about melekûnh since they live undisturbed by their neighbours.”

“And what do you think instead?”

“I _thought_ melekûnh perfectly harmless,” Thorin replied, stressing the past tense and lowering his gaze to Bilbo’s mouth. The melekûn squirmed under the scrutiny, then chuckled.

“Hush, you silly...” he said, squeezing his eyes in the sudden gush of a smile. “Balin must be waiting for you. Go now, before I...well, on my part I’ll go straight to the kitchen and prepare some buns and cake for tea. And cookies to convince Dwalin that hobbits are not so wicked after all. You can take some time after the meetings, can’t you?” Bilbo asked, frowning slightly. “You’ll need some food and some rest if the meetings are going to be as exerting and frustrating as you expect them to be.”

“Yes, I can. I can make time for tea with you,” Thorin answered, after what seemed a long time.

Bilbo’s expression brightened like a gem would do once caught in the sunlight.

 _I can do this_ Thorin thought at the sight _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with [this](http://bracari-iris.tumblr.com/post/129480789955/based-on-my-fair-hobbits-latest-update-you) fanart (including: beard-grabbing! kisses! red-cheeked Prince!) by bracari-iris / malchikelf.  
> Make sure to follow her blog!


	14. Usrunu’okhbib

Dwarves are fond of music - Bilbo had learnt that much in the earliest stages of his acquaintance with Thorin and his companions. During their stay at Bag End, Dwalin and Balin had entertained him with songs after dinner. Though their voices were hardly exceptional and rough at the edges, far from the smooth voices usually appreciated among hobbits, the sons of Fundin knew how to keep a tune. They had sung common tavern ballads in Westron, but they had also intoned some chants in their birth language - they had sounded so mysterious at the time, though Dwalin had confessed to him that at least one of them was a silly song for teaching dwarflings how to do sums.

Later, Bilbo had been pleased to discover that dwarves were really musical folk.

The very fact that one of the few books in Erebor mentioning hobbits was a collection of ballads and poems proved that their otherwise not very keen interest in other cultures could be roused by such a topic. Dwarves sang while they worked in the mines as well as at the King’s table, songs were composed to commemorate a new achievement of the Engineers’ Guild or to play a joke on an enemy, dwarflings were taught their lessons through lullabies and musical instruments were a common gift for relatives and friends. Bofur often played the flute while Bilbo talked with Bombur about food and recipes, and Bifur had designed some of the strangest instruments Bilbo had ever laid his eyes upon, all strings and tubes and buttons.

Still, Thorin’s harp had come as a surprise.

Bilbo had seen the prince keeping time with his foot while others sang and played at his father’s table, but he had never joined them. He had guessed that music pleased Thorin as much as any other dwarf and they had also talked about it sometimes, especially after Master Ori had given Thorin that collection of Western songs and rhymes.

Yet this was little compared to the revelation that Thorin could play an instrument and play it in such a manner that Bilbo had to do his best not to trip over his feet every time he turned around and found Thorin there, plucking at the strings. Thorin’s shyness about it - the way he had never told Bilbo he could play the harp and how flustered he had looked when Dís had coaxed him into playing for them - was endearing. It was a stroke of luck that Fíli and Dís were present, otherwise Bilbo would have ended up kissing the prince at every turn of notes and there would have been no music at all. And no matter how appealing the idea of praising Thorin’s talent with words and kisses was, Bilbo _did_ need to learn some dances for the Mahalmerag.

“Bilbo, watch your steps!” Fíli reproached him, sounding exactly like his uncle.

The hobbit rolled his eyes and heard a stifled laugh coming from Dís.

“Come on, Master Bilbo,” she said, for she still insisted on calling him _Master_. Kíli, sitting on her lap, gave a happy trill and babbled something which may have passed for the hobbit’s name, but with far more Bs than anyone had ever managed. His mother rewarded him with a kiss on his dark hair, before throwing a mischievious glance at Bilbo. “Focus or you’ll be the worst dancer after my brother at the Mahalmerag.”

Thorin, who had not stopped playing, marked his sister’s words with a grunt, but hardly raised his eyes from the harp. They were in Dís’s quarters and the prince had taken his seat by the fireplace. From time to time Thorin’s braids would get in the way when he bent over the silver instrument and he had to toss his hair behind his back with a turn of his head. Unfortunately, as captivating as the sight could be, as long as Thorin played his harp he would not dance with Bilbo.

“If only he would dance with me,” Bilbo complained in a light tone, looking at Dís but overly aware of Thorin’s eyes boring into him even while he kept playing, “at least I’d know what sort of mistakes I should avoid.”

Both Fíli and Dís chuckled at his witty answer, but Thorin only frowned and slightly changed the tune. Fíli took hold of both Bilbo’s hands, encouraging him to start again with the figure they had been trying to practise.

The dwarfling had recovered very quickly from his fall in the mines. His sprained ankle had been treated with Óin’s concoctions and kept at rest for some days, but it seemed that dwarves could heal faster than other races. Fíli was as full of energy as he had ever been, though in truth Thorin had been playing slow, heavily marked tunes that did not require hectic movements. Bilbo guessed that it was done for Fíli’s sake as well as his, so that the dwarfling did not have to exert himself and Bilbo could start learning the slower-paced dances. Still, the hobbit felt clumsy while he tried to imitate Fíli’s movements.

“Do folk dance so differently in the Shire?” Dís asked, after Bilbo had failed to follow Fíli’s instructions.

“Oh, yes, Lady Dís,” he replied, as soon as Fíli left him breath enough to answer. “Some of our dances involve figures, but they can be described briefly as a lot of hand-clapping, jumping around trying to avoid anyone’s else feet, and switching your dance partner with your neighbour. But most of the time we just like to dance with flowers in our hair and hands to hold.”

“It sounds...primitive,” Dís commented, frowning slightly.

“Dís,” Thorin growled.

“I guess it is,” Bilbo replied, shrugging, “especially compared to the sort of dances you have here. Are all dwarf dances so _stuffy_?” he asked, looking straight at Dís.

“You see, nadad,” she said to Thorin, though she did not take her eyes off Bilbo. “You don’t need to glare at me, Master Bilbo can speak for himself well enough and your protection is wasted on him. And I’ll admit that I deserve it. Yes, most of our dances are so stuffy, Master Bilbo...but you don’t have to worry, since it lasts only as long as there’re still ale and wine in the barrels. Then, when most of us are drunk enough, our dance style will grow far more similar to yours, though with more head-butting than hand-clapping.”

“I don’t know what to fear more - the stuffy dances or the uncontrolled head-butting,” Bilbo hummed.

“Don’t fear, Bilbo,” Fíli piped up, straightening his back. “I’ll be there.”

There was so much chivalry about the dwarfling that it was impossible to tease it. Such self-confidence in his own ability to protect Bilbo was second only to his desire to do so and the hobbit could not help feeling touched at the partiality Fíli did not even try to hide. So he smiled at the dwarfling and bowed.

“Will you dance with me even if I’ll be the worst dancer there?” he asked.

“I have danced with uncle several times and amad says _he_ is the worst dancer,” Fíli commented.

“Then I shall put your name on my card for the first dance,” Bilbo replied. “It’s considered a great honour in the Shire,” he added, when the dwarfling did not seem very impressed with the promise.

“There, you have rules of your own!” Dís pointed out. “What is this idea?”

“Well, especially when there’s a very large party or ball with dozens of other hobbits, we have these little cards where you can put the names of the hobbits you have promised to dance with. You’re supposed to dance first with the people you care about, like relatives, friends or...well, romantic interests. Having your list full of names and no time to sit down between one dance and the next is considered a sign of success among hobbits; asking to have the first dance of the evening is a way to show your interest while dancing many times with the same hobbit may hint to some special affection.”

“Do you court through dances then?” Thorin inquired.

Bilbo tried his best to keep a straight face, though he was surprised by Thorin’s sudden interest. The prince had not seemed in a very talkative mood and most of the conversation had been carried on without his contribution. It was true that Thorin was quieter when his siblings or his friends were around. Bilbo often wondered whether such behaviour implied that the dwarf was ashamed of being seen talking to him or he was just shy and slightly jealous of the growing confidence between them and did not mean to share it with others. As a matter of fact Bilbo himself felt quite protective of whatever was going on between him and Thorin. He did not mean to be secretive, but neither was he so naive to believe that there might be something simple about kissing the King’s son.

He had not dared to ask Ori - to whom he had been introduced at last with great pleasure on both sides - if there was any law providing a long imprisonment for hobbits who dared to kiss the heir to the throne.

“Not necessarily,” Bilbo replied, trying to sound as unaffected as possible, though discussing the very subject of courtship in Thorin’s presence made his heart flutter in the most treacherous way. “Yet it’s far from unusual for a courtship to start during a ball and many happy announcements have been made at the summer dances. All this business with dance cards is not really binding, but a hobbit would be deemed very frivolous for having given away his or her dances without taking other people’s feelings into account.”

“Hobbits are curious folk indeed. They don’t care to write down any chronicle but the list of their dance partners” Dís commented.

“There may be something wise about it,” Thorin replied. “At least they store good memories. Isn’t it so?”

“Yes,” Bilbo admitted, trying to guess what Thorin was thinking. But the dwarf lazily plucked at the harp’s strings, eliciting a little haunting tune, and his blue eyes revealed nothing. Oh, how Bilbo would have liked to have a few moments alone with Thorin! “My mother used to take out her old cards from time to time and recall a great number of funny anecdotes about her dance partners - like the things they had said to her and how they danced. But most of all she remembered every dance with my father and she cherished the cards where she had written his name so many times.”

“I agree with you nadad,” Dís said, taking a look at Thorin before turning back to Bilbo. “There’s some wisdom in it. Your mother was truly fond of your father, wasn’t she?”

Such a question would have been considered too straight-forward and tactless in the Shire, but Bilbo was not annoyed. Dís freely showed her love for her husband and her sons in his presence; the very fact that Kíli had been admitted to their little gathering, giggling and gaping at his brother and Master Baggins dancing, was proof of Dís’s change of heart about the hobbit. Bilbo knew that she would always be as teasing and unrelenting with him as she was with her loved ones, yet she had unmistakably taken him into her confidence. Like most dwarves she was more than a little blunt and her sensibilities largely differed from Bilbo’s, but since she had allowed herself to like him and his company, it was easier for the hobbit to appreciate her strong sharp mind and her dry humour.

“They loved each other very much,” Bilbo replied at last.

His simple answer seemed to please Dís, frank as she was in most matters of the heart, but Fíli was less interested in the subject of love and courtship than his mother was.

“Let’s start again,” the dwarfling suggested, tugging gently at Bilbo’s hand. “Irak’adad, will you play the _Usrunu’okhbib_? I like it above any other,” Fíli explained to the hobbit.

“Is it...the ballad of the art of forging?”

“Your Khuzdul is improving,” Dís pointed out with a swift smile. “It’s one of the most ancient melodies known among dwarves and a traditional piece played at the Mahalmerag. You really must learn how to perform this dance by heart, for it will be played again and again throughout the night of the feast. My father and Fíli are overly fond of the _Usrunu’okhbib_. And Thorin plays it exceedingly well.”

“Probably because I get asked to play it every time I take the harp in my hands,” Thorin muttered.

“You’d prefer to delight us with your own creations, wouldn’t you?” Dís teased him in turn. Bilbo, who had been trying to mirror Fíli’s movements, missed a step to take a look at Thorin, stunned at Dís’s words. The princess probably intercepted his amazed glance and easily guessed its cause. “He didn’t tell you, did he? He has some talent for inventing little tunes.”

Though she had spoken dismissively, Thorin shifted uneasily in his armchair and bent lower over the harp, as if he could hide the vague blush spreading on his cheeks and pretend that the harp needed some tuning.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be asked to play,” Bilbo mused. He knew that Thorin would be annoyed at hearing him and Dís talking as if he was not in the same room, but he could not help teasing him a little, considering that he had kept such a secret. “I’d surely have begged him to play. I may not have any particular gift for playing any instrument, but I do appreciate music.”

“Then you should ask him to sing for you, Master Bilbo,” Dís suggested lazily.

The thought prickled Bilbo’s mind with excitement. He had always had a soft spot for Thorin’s voice, even back then when he had thought him the rudest creature who had ever walked through Bag End’s door. Sometimes he grew so engrossed in Thorin’s deep tone that he missed what the prince was saying. To his great embarrassment, the prince was perfectly aware of that and rarely missed a chance to mock him on the subject. If the most common topic of conversation could be turned into sweet-talking by Thorin’s voice, what would singing do to his poor nerves?

“Maybe I’ll do it,” Thorin replied, as if he had guessed the most improper trail of Bilbo’s thoughts.

Their eyes did not meet, since the hobbit was observing Fíli showing him the right posture to begin the dance, while Thorin was checking the sound coming from the now perfectly-tuned strings. Nonetheless the prince’s words hung in mid-air, like an invisible thread stretched between them; its soft pull reminded Bilbo that he had woken that very morning with an unbearable desire for Thorin’s kisses - kisses that would make his lips burn and tingle, kisses that would slip down his neck and make his heart race against his ribs. Only the most abundant breakfast had somewhat eased the hobbit’s mind and bent it to a more rational course.

Too many days had passed since their afternoon of kisses. It had been a glorious afternoon indeed and the hobbit felt that he would cherish such a memory for the longest time. He had not properly planned to kiss Thorin under the snow when they had taken their stroll through the wood to celebrate his progress in Khuzdul. Neither had Bilbo thought much before daring Thorin to kiss him between one change of clothes and the other. Both times he had been spurred by a crushing force he had never thought himself able to experience, something fierce and burning and wholly un-hobbit-y.

Was he growing into a strange _dwarf-hobbit_ , nurturing this want going deeper and deeper, taking roots in thoughts and desires that a gentle-hobbit would have never contemplated? Or was it true for anyone, regardless of race, that affection could take one’s heart to lands unmarked and undreamed of? If it was so, then Bilbo wanted to map those lands and the landscape of Thorin’s mouth as well.

Unfortunately he had never been alone with Thorin since that afternoon.  

Bilbo was positive that the prince had not been avoiding him on purpose. The Mahalmerag was drawing closer and Erebor was flooded with new guests almost every day - dwarves from the Iron Hills and other Eastern settlements, elves from Greenwood, men from Dale. Balin, Hepti, and the other councillors supervised the execution of the King’s orders day and night; the princes themselves were required to act in their father’s name to guarantee that the preparations for the feast would proceed as planned and Thorin’s responsibilities had increased so much that Bilbo worried that he had no time to eat properly.

“Put your mind at rest,” Thorin had said to the hobbit the day before, when Bilbo had slipped into his quarters and tried to coax him into eating some roasted ham.“I had my lunch earlier.”

“Oh, I know what sort of lunch you have lately! Gobbling down some bread and cold soup while you keep writing dispatches and howling orders,” the hobbit had grumbled, earning a snigger from Balin and Ori, who were there to present the prince with some plans for the feast.

“Leave it here,” Thorin had grunted, making an impatient gesture and glaring at the other two dwarves.

Ori had looked quite abashed at his prince’s scowl, but Balin had only smiled knowingly.

“We’ll make sure that he eats that, lad,” he had promised Bilbo, winking.

“Before it gets cold,” Bilbo had blurted out, though Thorin had not looked pleased.

“Before it gets cold,” Balin had repeated, nodding.

Then, while Bilbo had been closing the door behind him, he had heard Balin say something about the pleasures of being spoilt with delicious food and kind thoughts.

Although Thorin had not seemed overly fond of Bilbo fussing over him and had continued to wear himself out with his tight schedule of meetings, he had not completely neglected Bilbo’s lessons in Khuzdul. He had kept meeting the hobbit in the evenings and a couple of times just after breakfast, though Bilbo had grown confident enough to study on his own, practising his runes and trying to read the simplest books Thorin had procured him with Ori’s help.

Yet they had always been joined by others for those lessons - mostly Fíli, sometimes Dís, a couple of times Frerin who wanted to see for himself how his favourite melekûn (Thorin might have growled a little at such an endearment) was faring with Khuzdul, even Thráin once. The King had intended to speak with his son about a minor disagreement with the elves over some hunting rights in the lands North of Greenwood, but he had ended up inquiring about Bilbo’s lineage, being particularly interested in the hobbit’s kinship with the Thain.

“I fear your father has been disappointed tonight,” Bilbo had commented when Thráin had gone and he and Thorin had been left alone at last. “He may have hoped to have welcomed some royalty from the Shire, but the Thain is not a King and I’ve not a drop of royal blood in my veins. On the other hand, some say that the Tooks have been meddling with fairies in the past - it would explain why there’re always two or three eccentric individuals every generation, doing their best to shock the gentle-hobbits’ sensibilities. I may be one of them, but I’m also Baggins of Bag End and Bagginses have a reputation for being most respectable and sensible folk,” he had pointed out. Then, noticing Thorin’s grin, he had added: “Though I believe that running away with a wizard and making friends with dwarves will be considered outrageous even for a potty Took.”

Thorin had not properly answered that.

He had gently pushed Bilbo against the door frame and leant down to kiss the corner of his mouth. The hobbit had shaken all over, feeling his propriety almost cracking at the sweetness of the kiss, but there had not been more than that. Thorin had wished him good night and Bilbo had returned to his rooms - the prince had been so clearly tired that Bilbo had not wanted to impose, though he would have been content with looking at Thorin’s sleepy face and listening to his snoring (did Thorin snore? Bilbo thought so and he did not mean to part with this silly, domestic fantasy of Thorin son of Thráin being most obnoxious in his sleep).

Still, that midnight kiss had relieved Bilbo of his worries. Thorin was not annoyed with him, neither was he trying to ignore what had passed between them. He was just very busy and Bilbo was willing to wait - in truth there was some pleasure even in this waiting, knowing that sooner or later they would find each other and laugh together, talk about many things, and then kiss. This did not mean that the hobbit did not look forward to that moment when they would freely indulge in each other.

He was glad to have Fíli around and Frerin always had something funny to report. The younger prince was most talented with impressions and it was almost impossible to resent his brazen manners. Talking with Dís was more interesting than Bilbo had thought at first - and not only when she talked about Thorin. Meanwhile Balin and Dwalin had become dearer to the hobbit as their acquaintance had deepened. With Ori Bilbo shared an interest in books and history; the young scribe had soon become the hobbit’s favourite guide in Erebor, second only to Thorin himself. Ori had also promised to introduce Bilbo to his brothers Dori and Nori - the former had been a well-honoured warrior of the King’s private guard and he was a high-rank treasurer working with Thorin’s cousin Glóin, while the latter would come back to Erebor for the Mahalmerag ( _he’s the wandering type_ Ori had pointed out). Then there were Bilbo’s visits to Bofur’s shop. He valued the toymakers’ friendship as well as Balin’s or Ori’s; the fact that Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur were not part of the King’s court never bothered him - though sometimes (to Bilbo’s great disappointment) it seemed to annoy Thorin.   

Thus Bilbo’s old fear of being isolated in Erebor had faded. It was strange to think that he had been so determined to leave with Gandalf weeks ago. He was still a hobbit among dwarves and most of their customs were oddities, if not unacceptable in his eyes. Yet he was far from unhappy and less lonely than he had been since his parents’ death. Gandalf’s words - _you don’t even know how lonely you were_ \- came back to his mind from time to time, especially when he looked at his new friends and thought about how they had challenged his ideas about the world and about himself. He was still Bilbo Baggins, deep down, but now he knew that _being Bilbo Baggins_ was a greater and more unexpected affair than he had thought.

 _There is more about me than I guessed when I was alone_.

And it had taken an adventure into the East for him to learn it.

 

“I must take back my words, Master Bilbo. You may become a very good dancer indeed, though you looked a little awkward at the beginning.”

Bilbo performed a little bow at Dís’s compliments and chuckled when he caught sight of Fíli beaming. The dwarfling could not have looked prouder of his pupil’s progress, despite the fact that his braids were in disarray and his face flushed. Not only they had moved to more vivacious dwarf dances, but Bilbo had also taken some time to give a demonstration of the sort of dancing he would perform in the Shire. Fíli had been quite excited about all the pirouetting and jumping hobbits preferred, to the point that Dís had begged him to take some rest before making himself too giddy with all that whirling and spinning. Fresh drinks and tea had been brought in by the servants, along with dried fruits to restore the dancers’ energies.

“Dwarf dances might not be so bad after all,” Bilbo puffed, sitting down on the rug before the fireplace like Fíli had done. “It takes a little to learn all those steps and rules and figures, but I’m starting to have fun.”

“We can’t have you bored,” Dís replied, laughing. “I’m sure our father will agree to introduce some hobbit dances as long as you promise to enjoy yourself at the feast. And convince Thorin to do the same. You’ll get him to dance, won’t you?” she suggested with a mischievious smile.

“After you’ve tried to convince me that he’s the worst dancer ever seen in Erebor? He may have to remove his boots, because I don’t mean to have my feet crushed” Bilbo asked, feigning indignation.

Dís laughed, but Thorin remained unmoved by the joke at his expenses. He did not look at the hobbit, who took a sip of black tea from his cup and peered up at the prince, feeling silly for the way he had joined Dís in her teasing. He knew that Thorin was more than a little touchy and the dwarf had made clear enough that he had no desire to dance with him - otherwise he would have taken Fíli’s place and done some teaching of his own. It might be that Thorin disliked dancing and preferred to play his harp, but Bilbo began to think that he had displeased him.

Thorin had been very quiet and scarcely joined the conversation. He had played for them, but he had not given any sign of enjoying it. Being unable to guess the dwarf’s thoughts annoyed Bilbo and the stony look Thorin could wear frustrated any attempt to read the feelings behind it. Now and then the hobbit had caught something else, something _intense_ , in Thorin’s eyes while the dwarf followed his dancing with Fíli. At such times Bilbo had fancied that their kisses were on Thorin’s mind and his heartbeat had grown quicker from more than simple dancing.

While Thorin watched him, Dís watched Thorin. While she kept talking to Bilbo about dancing and music, all the time rocking Kíli in her lap, Dís’s eyes would flicker to Thorin as if she was assessing something. Her expression was hardly more readable than her brother’s, leaving Bilbo to wonder what she saw on Thorin’s face that made him such an interesting subject for her observation.

Balin, Dwalin, and Frerin’s unexpected arrival brought new animation to Dís’s quarters. They were all looking forward to some distraction from their heavy duties in the preparations for the Mahalmerag and they eagerly joined the small gathering in Dís’s rooms. Balin bowed to the princess and asked for the honour to dance with her. Dís laughed and left Kíli in Dwalin’s care, though the warrior looked a little awkward dealing with the dwarfling drumming on his tattooed head with his small fists.

A fiddle was put in Fíli’s hands.

“Play something merry, little brat!” Frerin requested, taking Bilbo’s hand and helping him to his feet.

Fíli complied - he was not an outstanding player, but he kept the tune quite well and Bilbo had no trouble following Frerin into the dance. Actually he found himself so engrossed with the dancing that he almost forgot Thorin, until his eyes fell on the empty armchair.

“Where has he gone?” the hobbit asked Dwalin when Frerin let go of him and took hold of his sister instead.

“To the forges,” Dwalin grunted while he tried to free his beard from Kíli’s stubborn fingers. He spoke in short sentences, busy as he was trying to deal with the over-enthusiastic dwarfling bouncing up and down in his arms. “Thorin does that, sometimes. Working on something I suppose. Very good at it, but it’s hardly unexpected, Thorin being Thorin. Good at anything he puts his mind to.”

 

*

 

Bilbo had envisioned something different in truth. Something involving a bare chest smeared with grease and smoke, a huge hammer being wielded with deceiving ease, a white-hot piece of metal being beaten into the shape of a great sword while the forges roared with fires and clangs. Of such a fantasy only the naked torso remained, though far less darkened with soot than Bilbo had imagined it.

“What are you doing here?” Thorin asked, furrowing his brow and then swiping it with the back of his hand - well, at least there was some sweating involved.

“Looking for you?” the hobbit replied, knowing that his voice was squeaky at best.

Reality might have failed to meet his expectations, but this hardly meant that he was unaffected by the sight of Thorin’s chest. A very _nice_ chest indeed, Bilbo had seen that much the first time the prince had appeared shirtless in his kitchen - though the hobbit would never have admitted that the memory had proved quite persistent.

Despite the fact that Thorin was not brandishing any hammer nor were his muscles subjected to any particular effort, the view was lovely in a way which made Bilbo’s hands prickle with the desire to pet the dark hair running down to the dwarf’s navel and - sweet Yavanna, what a thing to notice! - disappearing beneath his belt.  

“ _Looking_ indeed,” Thorin commented.

Bilbo’s head snapped up to find the prince’s blue eyes alight with amusement and a smug grin stretching his lips. He wondered if he would ever be able to look at Thorin’s large chest without glowing red as his prized tomatoes - but this would imply growing used to it and such a route Bilbo’s mind could not bear for the time being.

It had not been difficult to find him, since Bilbo had visited the forges in Thorin’s company before. A halfling was such a peculiar sight in Erebor that the dwarves working there remembered him very well as their prince’s friend - oh, had Thorin really used that word to introduce him to the Master Smiths? Bilbo could not really remember, but the dwarves had seemed quite glad to give him directions.

He had found the prince alone, standing behind a desk covered in different chunks of metals and crafting tools - hammers and pliers, and others whose name Bilbo did not know. There was a fire burning in the big-bellied fireplace and the room smelled strongly of metal and smoke, leather and grease. It was not a surprise that Thorin had stripped down to his trousers and boots, for the forges were the warmest place in Erebor, and Bilbo himself had removed his coat and opened his shirt down to the first two buttons. Coat wrapped on his arm, the hobbit leant against the stone of the doorframe, taking some time to observe Thorin unobserved.

There was not any forging going on, no beating the hammer upon scorching metal. Thorin was working on something different which required less brutal force and more precision, considering how he bent over the desk and used a large lens to observe his doings. His skin was flushed from the warmth of the high flames burning in the fireplace rather than from exertion, while the only shattering noise came from outside the laboratory, where the great devices of Erebor’s forges worked day and night.

“You left without a word,” the hobbit muttered, trying to focus on the actual reason why he had followed Thorin to the forges.

“You were dancing,” Thorin replied, shrugging. “And there was something I wished to work on. How long have you been watching?” he asked then, narrowing his gaze until Bilbo felt the temptation to squirm under it.

Giving Thorin his most dignified look, the hobbit took a step forward into the laboratory, his hands joined behind his back and his eyes latched onto the dwarf’s face rather than his shoulders - powerful _bare_ shoulders since Thorin had tied his dark hair into a ponytail with a strip of leather. And there was that delicious joint between shoulder and neck, where Bilbo would have liked to put his mouth and discover if he would be able to leave a pretty pink mark or a whole necklace of them - _oh my, what am I even thinking?_ He could only hope that Thorin would think that it was the warmth of the fires enflaming his cheeks.

“What is it?” Bilbo asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Thorin’s gaze softened unexpectedly and he tilted his head.

“Come closer,” he invited Bilbo, moving aside to make space for the hobbit to join him by the desk.

“Beads!” the hobbit exclaimed as soon as he had looked properly at the items scattered on the desk.

Small gems, the biggest not larger than one of Bilbo’s nails, where divided by colour in a metal box - mostly sapphire and diamonds, but also precious stones whose name he did not know. Silver, iron, copper, gold, mithril were at Thorin’s disposal and came in nuggets, bars, thread, and leaf. Beside the materials lay the tools: tweezers, files, and the smallest chisels - a goldsmith’s tools.

“I didn’t know you could work on such tiny stuff,” Bilbo commented, lowering his head to examine the beads Thorin was working on but not quite daring to pick them up. He heard Thorin laugh beside him.

“Did you think me too clumsy and my hands too big to handle small things?” the dwarf asked, so openly flirtatious that Bilbo felt a rush of affection.

He had to nudge Thorin’s ribs with his elbow and throw him a reproachful glance.    

“Oh, don’t play coy with me,” he said, though he could see that Thorin had detected the warmth seeping through his words and was very pleased with himself. “I only thought that brute dwarves like you would prefer a more formidable kind of work, like hammering their bad moods away among walls of smoke and tongues of fire, forging weapons while brooding on their fate and their next valorous deed.”

Thorin laughed again, his whole body reverberating with it; Bilbo’s eyes fell - most casually - on the way the laugh rippled down Thorin’s chest and stomach, flickering upon his muscles.

“I can do that as well,” the dwarf murmured, his eyes the brightest blue. “I take it then that you were disappointed with finding me bent to less remarkable work, hardly displaying any brute strength and - what is worse - not brooding.”

“I don’t mind the lack of brooding from time to time,” Bilbo hummed, giving in to the temptation to brush his thumb against the dark smudge on Thorin’s cheekbone; he saw the dwarf’s eyelashes flutter at the touch and he would not have been surprised to hear Thorin purr. “But you must have come here to mull over something or you wouldn’t have left in such an ungentle manner. I rather liked you playing.”

Thorin’s eyes opened wide at Bilbo’s compliment, as if it had been unexpected. And pleasant, yes, pleasant as well if the darkening of Thorin’s gaze was anything to go by.

“You dance rather well,” the dwarf said, his voice roughened and his hand cupping Bilbo’s cheek.

A moment later Thorin’s mouth had taken Bilbo’s in a kiss, his tongue pushing past Bilbo’s lips and licking his breath away. The hobbit complied with a soft moan and his mouth opened into the kiss like a flower would into the sun, with the natural greediness of one taking advantage of what is offered. And Thorin offered him a whirlwind of emotions, all condensed in the focused, war-like way Thorin could kiss him as if Bilbo had been a land to conquer. It pleased him, this eagerness on Thorin’s part; it made him feel courted, though nothing of the sort had truly passed between them - _not yet_ , a voice at the back of Bilbo’s mind supplied, tempting his heart.

The touch of the dwarf’s beard still came as a surprise, but it was more thrilling than off-putting; the beard had seemed to get in the way the first time, yet Bilbo felt that he was getting fonder of it with every kiss. _I might even develop a proper fixation on it_ he thought, since all that tickling and rubbing put his skin on fire, till he could sense Thorin’s kisses for hours. And since he did not have Thorin at his disposal whenever he wished, the ghost feeling of his kisses was of some consolation.

Not that Thorin’s beard should have got all the merit for how long his kisses stayed on Bilbo’s mind. In fact the prince was, in Bilbo’s opinion, quite good at it. He had seemed vaguely uncertain at first, as if he had not really trusted himself on the subject of kisses, but he had soon shown a quite remarkable flair. It was difficult to compare him with the hobbits Bilbo had kissed in the past - Thorin was a dwarf and Bilbo himself felt quite different in his company.

“I’ve been very ungentle leaving you behind, dancing with my brother,” Thorin breathed when they parted, while he stroked Bilbo’s cheek with his thumb. His other hand was on the hobbit’s hip, its weight warming Bilbo’s flesh through his clothes.

“Are you pretending to be jealous?” Bilbo asked, his voice light and cheerful but his eyes trained on the shifts in the dwarf’s mood.

“I’ll have you know that I don’t share,” Thorin declared, stiff and haughty as he always was when he thought his opinions or choices likely to be challenged.

Even his hand on Bilbo’s hip became heavier, though his expression was still soft from their kiss.

“Then I’ll have you know that I’ve been running around Erebor kissing dwarves from dawn till dusk,” the hobbit sighed. “Mostly princes- yes, I’ll admit that I’ve a penchant for princes - but I like to indulge in every dwarf I meet on my way. Then at night I have to put some of Óin’s balm on the beard burns I get from all this bothersome business of kissing dwarves.”

“Don’t tease me on this Bilbo,” Thorin hissed through his teeth.

Such a pained and unhappy look was on his face - so different from the guarded expression Thorin wore most of the time! - that Bilbo came to a startling realisation. Not only was he most unwilling to hurt Thorin, but he also wished to shield him from sorrow - and if sorrow would not be shunned, then Bilbo would help Thorin bear it.

This brave resolve made the hobbit’s mind sway and his heart swell with the force of his affection for the prince. He had to cup Thorin’s face with both his hands and chose it as a focal point to bring his swirling thoughts to a halt. Their foreheads were close enough to touch and it was a pity that Thorin had closed his eyes.

“I must,” the hobbit said, resisting the temptation to smooth the frown that appeared on Thorin’s forehead. “I must tease you, Thorin son of Thráin, since you’re being very dense and I should be offended - do you think I bestow kisses so lightly?”

“I’m not acquainted with Shire customs about kissing,” Thorin mumbled, cracking an eye open. “I may have been too busy to ask you anything about it and thought...” he shook his head, finally opening his eyes on Bilbo. “Thought too much about doing this again,” he grumbled, as if the confession of his own desire annoyed him to no end.

“You oaf. You big, impossible oaf,” Bilbo murmured, pressing his nose against Thorin’s. “I shouldn’t even bother to end your misery - no, I should leave you thinking that I’ve made a sport of kissing dwarves, since you’ve been so obtuse to think of it in the first place. I don’t know anything about dwarf kissing either, and yet all I thought about was you kissing me. Especially while you played the harp so well.”

“I cannot have played as well as you say,” Thorin murmured, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I was distracted.”

“Oh my, will you try to convince me that I was the one distracting you? Middle-aged gentle-hobbits do not go around distracting princes, though they may kiss one or several in their lifetime.”

“Won’t you ever take a compliment from me, Master Baggins?” the dwarf puffed, though his complaint sounded fond rather than annoyed.

His hand had slipped from Bilbo’s hip to his back to rest between his shoulder blades.

“Sweet-talk doesn’t suit you. Glaring and growling is more your style.”

“Very well then. You’ve already pointed out that you were expecting to find me busy with a far more impressive sort of craft. You came here to see me beat the anvil among fumes and flames. And you wanted me to be in the foulest mood. In what other respects have I failed you, Master Baggins?” Thorin inquired, raising his brow.

“If you really want to know, I pictured you with your hair loose and more soot over your chest,” Bilbo confessed with some blushing and some bravado. “But, well, you look almost respectable.”

“Loose it then,” the dwarf replied, looking straight back at Bilbo.

“What? You mean... _your hair_?”

Thorin said nothing to that, but he leant a little toward Bilbo, as if inviting him to reach for the leather band. Bilbo hesitated. He knew enough about Khazâd customs to discard the possibility that such an offer had been made lightly. So his fingers trembled when they slipped past Thorin’s temples and into his thick, dark mane.

The look on Thorin’s face at the touch threatened to undo Bilbo there and then.

In retrospect, it was fortunate that the dwarf had chosen that moment to grab Bilbo by his hips and haul him up, though at the moment all Bilbo realized was that he was suddenly sitting on the table and that he had been lucky enough not to be pushed over sharp tools or gemstones. Then again Thorin’s mouth was on his, the dwarf’s thick fingers digging into his waist and Bilbo’s hands cradling his head. He blindly found the strip of leather, untied it while Thorin’s kiss grew more frantic and demanding, let it fall - at last he had his hands full of Thorin’s hair, softer than he had expected, flowing in waves through his fingers, around his wrists, against his cheeks. He pulled at it by accident when Thorin bit his lower lip and made him gasp, but the way the prince reacted - how his eyes burned and he sucked in a breath - was enough to encourage Bilbo to give another tug at the dwarf’s mane and capture his mouth into the next kiss. And Thorin went willingly enough, sucking at Bilbo’s tongue until the hobbit found himself pushing his heels into Thorin’s thighs, toes curling and nerves buzzing with pleasure.

Part of him knew that they were rushing things and that such kisses would push them further and further, to skin against skin, fingers probing and prying, a hasty release. Yet Bilbo did not find the strength within himself to flee Thorin’s kisses nor his fingers pinching and kneading the soft flesh of his waist. He did not even remember when Thorin’s hands had folded his tunic over his hips and found their way to the skin beneath; it must have been between the point when he had wrapped one of Thorin’s braids around his finger and kissed it under the dwarf’s heated gaze, and the point when Thorin’s tongue had licked a long stripe down his throat, making his eyes flutter closed and his breath catch.

So Bilbo was truly surprised when the stroke of the dwarf’s hands stopped. Thorin did not step back, but he straightened his head and looked intently at the hobbit in his arms.

“My apologies,” he grumbled, though he looked no less mussed up than Bilbo felt.

Lips swollen and red as cherries, hair falling over his thick shoulders, pupils grown so large that the blue of his eyes was but a thin ring burning around darkness, Thorin was beautiful - oh, when had he become so in Bilbo’s eyes?

“You’ve nothing to apologise for,” Bilbo replied, splaying his fingers over Thorin’s neck and finding pleasure in the quick rhythm of the heartbeat under his palm.

Still, neither of them moved, both musing on the impropriety of what they were doing, both comparing in their minds the standards of their people to what they felt in their heart. Though there were several differences between dwarf and hobbit sensibilities on the matter of passion - the most obvious was the fact that hobbits did not celebrate relationships between males - both races held their courtship rituals dear.

They had not followed any of them, making instead a path of their own up to this point. It all seemed so sudden and yet Bilbo felt that they had been walking down this road for a while, since the day Thorin had taken him for a servant.

He suddenly felt Thorin’s knuckles caress his cheek and he raised his eyes to find Thorin’s.  

“I may have offended your sensibilities with my hastiness.”

Bilbo did not know how to reply to that. Yes, his hobbit sensibilities were crumbling to the ground and his mind cringed in fear at the idea that neither was he in a courtship with Thorin nor would his feelings be satisfied with a short-lived tryst. But being frightened did not equal being offended.

“Have I offended yours?” he asked, rather than answering Thorin’s question.

A rueful smile appeared on the dwarf’s mouth, neither an admission nor a denial.

“It’s time for you to learn something about beads and braids,” Thorin murmured, casually picking up one of the beads he had been working on.

“Is it?” Bilbo asked, feeling rather amused.

Thorin’s change of subject was hardly subtle, yet Bilbo was grateful at not being rushed and instead allowed to let their passion subside a little, burn sleepily under the cinders rather than rise to an all-devouring fire. No matter how exceptional a hobbit he was, Bilbo was still rather fond of comforts. Lightly pressed against the warmth and firmness of Thorin’s body while the prince explained to him the meanings of the decorations and the materials for the beads, Bilbo felt his fears wane for the time being and their thoughtless ardour be replaced by a quiet happiness, a sweet contentment peppered with light kisses and brushes of their fingers.

 _I can do this_ Bilbo thought, with beads in his palm and Thorin’s lips pressed to his temples, humming a haunting song.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  _Usrunu’okhbib_ : ballad of the art of the forges


	15. I Could Have Danced All Night

 “Wait.”

Bilbo stopped and turned on his heels to find Thorin marching toward him. He looked taller than usual, his shoulders imposingly larger in the narrow corridor. The flickering torch-light caught in his garments at every step. His beads, rings, and buckles were heavy with sapphires and geometric carvings, while threads of white gold and mithril had been braided in his dark hair.

Bilbo was tempted to put his hands to his own chest, to make sure that his heart would not leap out of it, so fast and loud was it beating at the sight of the dwarf. It was silly indeed, considering that they had seen each other the day before and they had managed to exchange some kisses in a dark corner outside Dís’s quarters, giggling like fauntlings and then losing their breath in a longer kiss which had left Bilbo with his body burning from the desire to drag Thorin to his chambers. No wonder he had hardly slept at the thought of what could have been if they had truly taken their kisses to his bedroom.

And now the dwarf was before him in all the glory of his royal status. Could you blame Bilbo’s knees for feeling weak at the sight of the familiar frown he so wished to smooth away from Thorin’s forehead?

Yet, when Thorin’s eyes swept over him from head to foot, Bilbo shuddered.

“Oh, you shouldn’t be here!” he whined, his shoulders sagging a little under Thorin’s gaze. “You were supposed to see me at the feast and _this_ should have been a surprise.”

 _This_ was Bilbo’s outfit for the Mahalmerag. Though Thorin had helped him with the choice of the proper clothes to wear at the feast, Bilbo had been very keen on having the final word on the subject. In the end, a quite disgruntled prince had imposed only one condition - that the hobbit would wear the mithril shirt Thorin had given him and whose value Bilbo only half-guessed (in truth the hobbit one-hundredth-guessed, since he thought one could buy a mill with it, when one could actually buy every brick and roof and pasture in the Shire with it, and some more). To no avail Bilbo had protested that the mithril shirt, feather-light like no other garment he had ever possessed or worn, was too precious a gift.

Thorin had been unmoved by his arguments and Bilbo had accepted to wear it.

“I’ll look ridiculous and you’ll be satisfied then,” he had muttered under his breath, pretending that Thorin’s thin smile was having no effect whatsoever on him.

Bilbo had spent the morning with Dís and her boys - Kíli gurgling in his cradle and spying on them with his big brown eyes. Dís had showed Bilbo how she braided Fíli’s hair, while the dwarfling had been most inquiring about the current fashion in the Shire. In order to explain what would pass for fashionable in the West, Bilbo had improvised with what he had at hand, so that they had ended up playing with furs and scarves and necklaces, laughing at each other and at the nonsensical outfits they had come up with. At least until Heptifili had knocked at the door and asked what was going on - only to be sent away by Dís, who was very set on not letting her husband see her clothed for the feast before they would enter Thráin’s hall.

“Thorin will be pleased to see you in these clothes,” Dís had said, sort of taking for granted that Bilbo would keep his outfit a secret as well.

He had not properly planned to do so, but he had thought that he and Thorin would meet later in Thráin’s hall, and he had grown fond of his little fancy about how the courtiers and the guests would look at him, and how Thorin would make his way into the crowd to reach him. It had sounded like a scene out of a book, so it was more than a little inadequate to be caught in a dimly lit corridor while he was rushing back to his rooms for the handkerchief he had forgotten.

“Now the surprise is ruined,” Bilbo mumbled in disappointment.  

For a moment Thorin looked a little put-off by the cold welcome he had just received, then his gaze softened and he took some time to observe Bilbo’s clothes, shifting closer to the hobbit. His thick fingers ran through the dark fur, speckled with grey and brown, which lined Bilbo’s overcoat, then slipped down the blue velvet sleeves to the silver belt wrapped around Bilbo’s middle. Thorin hooked one of his fingers in the belt and dragged the hobbit closer to his chest, until he could lean his forehead against Bilbo’s.

“You’re wearing the mithril shirt,” he pointed out, peering down at the slice of bright metal showing beneath the over-garments.

His warm breath tickled Bilbo’s nose and the hobbit craned his neck to look properly into Thorin’s eyes.

“Someone made me promise to put it on,” he puffed, placing his hands on the dwarf’s forearms to steady himself when Thorin was practically looming over him.   

“You look good,” Thorin hummed, dropping his voice to a lower note while his hand found its way beneath the overcoat to caress Bilbo’s chest through the mithril.

The watery coldness of the metal seeped through the light cloth of Bilbo’s undershirt and, fainter, came the warmth of Thorin’s fingers. Though the dwarf kept the pressure to a minimum, Bilbo stepped back without taking his hands away from Thorin’s arms, until he found himself nestled between the wall and the prince, Thorin’s bulk stealing all the light and leaving him in warm, leather-scented darkness.

“You don’t look bad either,” Bilbo admitted, before pressing a kiss to Thorin’s mouth.

He felt the dwarf smile against his lips, but the kiss did not deepen as Bilbo had hoped. Instead Thorin’s hand found his.

“Indulge me,” Thorin murmured. This time no brass buttons were put in Bilbo’s hand, but seven beads. In the dull light he could hardly make out the delicate carvings on their surface and the exact colour of the gems mounted on them. “I made them as small as possible, so that they won’t be too heavy and won’t slip off your hair,” the prince added, his voice quivering with impatience.

“I’ve never braided my hair,” Bilbo said, feeling a little helpless.

“There will be hardly any proper braiding.” Thorin’s thumb landed on the hobbit’s cheek, stroking the skin over his cheekbone and his temple. “Your hair is far too short. They will keep, though, if you let me do it.”

“Braiding is for...” Bilbo began, then his voice faltered and he looked up at the dwarf.

“They’re seven,” Thorin replied, his thumb slipping past Bilbo’s temple, flattening locks of hair on the side of his head. The hobbit dimly realised that Thorin had never intentionally touched his hair before and that there was an unusual weight to such a caress, despite the fact that it was hardly more than a brush of fingertips on his curls. “Seven like the Fathers of the Khazâd who first walked on Middle-Earth - a proper gift on the day we celebrate Aulë Mahal.”

“But you’ve already given me your gift for the Mahalmerag!” Bilbo protested, instinctively clenching his hand around the beads and then pushing it against Thorin’s chest.

“So what?” the dwarf replied, stiffening and looking down at Bilbo’s small fist as if he was completely incredulous that his gift could be rejected.

“I cannot accept a second gift,” Bilbo muttered, shaking his head. “You’ve already given me a shirt made of mithril and I don’t need to be a dwarf to guess that’s a most expensive gift”

“It is,” Thorin admitted, raising his gaze and looking perfectly unabashed by such a detail.

“So it’s most inadequate for a hobbit.”

“It’s not,” the dwarf grunted. “Must we discuss it further? Or were you running back to your room to take it off? Since you’re so worried about the propriety of accepting a gift from me, you should know that it would be considered a great offence to turn it down and break your promise to wear it at the Mahalmerag.”

“I wasn’t going to take it off, you pompous, suspicious dwarf!” Bilbo huffed. “I’ve just forgotten my handkerchief.”

Thorin’s deep chuckle filled Bilbo’s ears and heart as well, feelings blooming in his chest like wild flowers in the wake of Spring.  

“Master Baggins, I’d give you hundreds of handkerchiefs if you didn’t protest so much,” Thorin said, the echo of his mirth still lingering in his voice. His hands came up to cover Bilbo’s, keeping it close to his chest and caressing his knuckles and wrist “Now, will you stop being difficult and accept the beads?”

“I cannot,” Bilbo insisted, stomping his foot on the floor. “I haven’t even given you a proper gift.”

“You gave me tea,” Thorin pointed out, knitting his brow.

“Please, don’t remind me of that,” the hobbit groaned. “I thought that the gifts could be small things and that a pouch of tea blend would be nice and proper, considering that I’ve almost managed to teach you how to take your tea like a gentle-hobbit would...”

“Yes, I remember what you taught me last time we sat down for tea,” Thorin smirked, while his thumb dipped under the velvet cuff of Bilbo’s tunic and caressed the warm skin fluttering at the beat of the hobbit’s heart. Last time they had had tea in Bilbo’s rooms, indeed, Thorin’s mouth had been there. And elsewhere.

“Don’t be rude,” the hobbit reproached him, though his cheeks turned pink at Thorin’s words. “And you should have said something when I gave you the tea blend.”

“I said _thank you_.”

“I mean you should have explained me that it was a poor gift compared to what you were...”

“It wasn’t a poor gift,” Thorin interrupted him, tickling his wrist with his blunt nail. “You _named_ a tea blend after me.”

“And you found it silly!” Bilbo exclaimed, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I found it adorable,” the prince corrected him.

“You don’t use words like _adorable_.”

“I can’t use such words, I can’t choose a gift for you, I can’t braid your hair as I wish - is there anything I can do with your approval, Master Baggins?” Thorin asked, a little coldly.

“Two gifts are...” the hobbit began, but he was not given a chance to finish his sentence.

“I shall give you how many gifts I want, I shall write a damned law about it if necessary,” Thorin snapped, growling at the back of his throat.

“You can’t force me!” Bilbo exclaimed, his voice burning with indignation.

For a moment he thought Thorin would raise his voice as well, but the dwarf just took a step back, his hands falling away from Bilbo’s.

“Then give me back the beads,” he said, managing an even tone despite the storm raging in his eyes.

“No!” Bilbo hissed, clutching his hand to his chest as if Thorin could have stolen back the beads at any moment.

“No?” Thorin repeated, looking utterly annoyed.

 _He has this habit_ , Bilbo thought, _of making me unsure about what I want_. One desire, though, rose above the others in the hobbit’s heart and his hand flew to grab the front of Thorin’s overcoat. He tugged at it, a sharp pull that mimicked the one Bilbo’s heart so often experienced in the prince’s company. Thorin let himself be dragged back against the hobbit and leant down when Bilbo raised up on his toes. They met half-way, lips already parted and short of breath after their bickering.  

Thorin had shown an inclination to use his tongue in the most vigorous way and Bilbo could not find it in himself to complain. It was indeed _thrilling_ to have the dwarf map his mouth so thoroughly, pushing and lapping and generally making Bilbo feel like a particularly delectable morsel. This time there was a faint taste of pipeweed on Thorin’s tongue and the hobbit sucked it, his mind flying to the picture of Thorin smoking while he read his papers early in the morning, still in his breeches after his night’s sleep, nipples peaked in the cold the fire had not chased away yet...and then Bilbo was back in Thorin’s arms, almost yanking his head down to have more and more of his kisses, more of his tongue and his lips and his beard, more of his hands running over his clothes - _under, please, under_ \- and more of the blue of his eyes which appeared at times in the fluttering of eyelids.

“Will you give me back the beads now?” Thorin asked when they broke the kiss, a little breathlessly - something Bilbo felt quite proud about.  

“No.”

Silence fell between them, thick with the sound of their mingled breaths. If Bilbo had thought that Thorin would ask again, he was being proven wrong - the prince did nothing of the sort and only kept him in his arms, lazily nibbling at the hobbit’s soft jaw.

“We’ll be late for the feast,” Bilbo pointed out, though he tilted his head to bare his throat to Thorin’s mouth. He felt the vibration of Thorin’s hum against his skin and the small kisses whose sweetness still caught him by surprise - who would have thought that the dwarf could mingle such gentleness with his passion? “Late!” Bilbo repeated in what came out as a high-pitched whine.

He suspected that Thorin was rather amused by his obstinacy on being on time for the feast, if the smile pressed against his neck was anything to go by. Nonetheless, the dwarf straightened his back and looked at him

“Go get your handkerchief then,” he offered in a nonchalant tone that clashed with the soft look on his face.

Bilbo frowned, torn between the appealing sight of Thorin’s mouth swollen from their kisses, the need of a gentle-hobbit for his handkerchief, and the weight of the beads in his hand. Couldn’t Thorin just _offer_ again? Oh no, he was clearly set on having Bilbo ask for it.

“Bother. Will...” he began, feeling vaguely embarrassed and shuffling on his feet, “...will you help me with these?” he inquired, disclosing his fingers to show the beads and peering up at the dwarf.

Thorin’s lips twitched in a smug smile. It was with unnecessary pomposity that he took Bilbo’s hand in his, closed it around the beads, then brought it to his mouth. He kissed the hobbit’s knuckles, then pried his fingers open and took one of the beads.

“Turn under the light,” he requested.

“What, here? There’s hardly any light for you to see what you’re doing,” Bilbo protested, though he did not avoid the touch of Thorin’s fingers on his hair.

“I am a dwarf,” the prince replied, a little haughtily. “I could braid your hair in full darkness. How do you think I manage my own?”

“I haven’t your long hair,” Bilbo muttered, feeling a little sheepish with Thorin’s fingers working on his hair in swift, confident motions - he had thought there would be more tugging, but in truth he had no reason to complain, since Thorin’s touch was careful and nimble.

“Don’t fuss. I said you’ll have your braids and I’ll be true to my word.”

“Will...will it be acceptable?”

Thorin’s fingers stopped their movement. Bilbo did not realise he was holding his breath until he felt the dwarf’s forehead pressed against the side of his head and he heard himself let out a little sigh.

“Bilbo. This bead I’m going to put here, just above your right ear, shows that you’re a _Khazâd-bâhu_ , a friend to my people. I decorated it as tradition dictates, carving the monogram of your name on it, as well as Mahal’s blessing and the symbol of Durin’s lineage. I made it of iron, because we Khazâd love precious metals, but our friendship and our protection are strong and unyielding like our axes and shields.” There was a pause and a kiss pressed to Bilbo’s hair. “Should anyone at the feast challenge the presence of these beads in your hair, I’ll see to them,” Thorin promised in a low but firm tone. “Here, it’s done.”

Bilbo moved his head tentatively. He felt an unusual weight above his ear, a little distracting - not as distracting as the warm look in Thorin’s eyes when their gazes met.

Holding the dwarf’s gaze, Bilbo raised his hand and offered him the beads.

“What about the next one?”

“This,” Thorin pressed his thumb against a golden bead with a black jet set among delicate geometric patterns and another rune monogram, “speaks of your courage. You saved Fíli son of Dís and Heptifili, my irakdashat, my heir. Gold for your heart and gold for Fíli’s hair, and black jet for the darkness you faced on your way, for the dark hollow of the pit. I’m putting it close to the first one, for King Thráin called you Khazâd-bâhu after that valiant deed. I know you don’t like to hear us speak of it in these terms,” the prince pointed out, anticipating the protests on Bilbo’s tongue, “but you underestimate this detail - that we treated you unfairly and I most of all, and you repaid us in kindness and loyalty. We were wrong about you and you proved us wrong with grace and...”

Thorin’s next words were muffled against the push of Bilbo’s tongue and turned into a low grumble, while the dwarf wound his arm around Bilbo’s waist to press him to his chest. The kiss, which had started rough and impatient, softened; the hobbit felt slightly exhilarated by the fact that Thorin let his nose be kissed, betraying neither annoyance nor mortification at the unprincely treatment he was being subjected to.

“I thought you didn’t want to be late,” Thorin murmured.

“You’re the one weaving long-winded and utterly unnecessary speeches,” Bilbo pointed out.

“I’ve never known hobbits to turn down long-winded speeches,” Thorin replied, amused. “Especially on the subject of their qualities, interests, and achievements. I believe that during my stay in the Shire at least two dozen hobbits managed to describe to me their plans for their gardens with an abundance of detail that left me nothing short of stunned.”

“Some of your dwarf curtness may have brushed off me,” Bilbo puffed, “and you may have already guessed that life and death matters are not exactly favoured subjects in the Shire.”

“What I’m beginning to guess is that you don’t wish to hear me speak from my own heart.”

Thorin had spoken lightly, as if his words were no more than the next line in their playful squabbling; he did not wear any meaningful expression, he did not press Bilbo closer than he already was. Yet the hobbit had learnt to recognise the small shifts in Thorin’s mood, those changes he had been unable to read on the dwarf’s hard features on their first acquaintance.

Now, though he could not claim to be able to read the prince’s mind nor his heart, he could at least see the seriousness in his eyes - the intent, measuring look that Thorin wore at times. Thorin might have spoken casually, but he cared about how Bilbo would respond to his words; Bilbo answered accordingly.

“I think,” he began, annoyed at the faint tremble in his voice, “that we should talk.”

It was blunt and possibly shocking - this implying that there was _something_ to talk about, when there was no courtship going on and Thorin was a male, a dwarf, and a prince on top of it. Yet his boldness seemed a relief to the dwarf, since his eyes lit up in the most endearing way and his hold on Bilbo grew more relaxed.  

“After the feast. Tomorrow at most,” he suggested.

Since there was still an interrogative note in the dwarf’s tone, Bilbo felt compelled to nod.

“Now, will you get on with this braiding business? It won’t bode very well for my reputation in Erebor if you manage to make me late for the beginning of the celebrations.”

“As you wish, Master Baggins,” Thorin grumbled, picking up a bead.

“Wait, what does that mean? I can’t have beads in my hair without knowing their meaning!”

“Make up your mind, you fussy thing,” the dwarf chuckled. “If you stay quiet and still, I might be able to finish my work quickly. I shall explain their meaning later, I promise. You trust me, don’t you?” he asked, brushing his thumb on the shell of Bilbo’s ear before moving to the next bead.

“I trust the fact that you don’t possess your brother’s penchant for jokes and you won’t braid anything in my hair saying _throw apples against this melekûn_.”

“I think there may be something like _if you find this melekûn, please bring him back to me_ ,” Thorin replied smoothly without interrupting his work.

“Oh stop it,” Bilbo rolled his eyes. “You’re terrible at this,” he muttered, without daring to ask whether _this_ was flirting, courting, or what dwarves called it.

“Fortunately I’ve other skills. There, now you’re ready to be presented to the King under the Mountain.”

“Your father already knows me, I’m the only hobbit under the Mountain,” Bilbo pointed out, even as he let himself be turned around by Thorin.

“This is different. It’s the Mahalmerag,” the dwarf murmured, adjusting a couple of loose strands.

“Thank you very much for hinting at the awful importance of the occasion. Now I’m sure all my fears of ending up in a cell with only stale bread to eat because I insulted the King instead of bidding him a merry birthday, are more realistic than I thought,” Bilbo grumbled.

“You’re worried for the stale bread diet, aren’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll take care to have a slice of pie sent to your cell.” The hobbit poked Thorin in the ribs, earning a muffled laugh. “ _Daily_ , I swear.”

“I’ll say that _you_ have taught me the words and you’ll end up in the same cell, Your Highness.”

“I look forward to being locked up in a small space with you, Master Baggins,” Thorin retorted. Bilbo’s cheeks glowed at the blunt innuendo, yet he liked the sweet touch of the dwarf’s fingers carding through his hair and touching his new braids. “Go take your handkerchief. I’ll see you in the hall,” Thorin said, suddenly taking his hands away from the hobbit - Bilbo had to stifle a complaint at the loss.

“At your service, Your Highness,” he cheekily offered instead, taking some time to adjust his clothes before scuttling away. The echo of Thorin’s laugh followed him down the corridor.

 

*

 

Hobbits know how to throw a party.

 _Yet Khazâd_ Bilbo thought, _may be as good as Hobbits in this regard_.

No flowers were involved, songs and ballads were quite different in the East, most wishing and greeting formulas still sounded inappropriate or vaguely silly to Bilbo’s ears, but he did not feel uneasy. Twelve months before he would have probably been horrified at the idea of laughing at crass jokes like those traded among his table-fellows or at the amount of beer spilled on the floor while dwarves danced and _brawled_. Yes, dwarves did that as well during parties - friendly, drunken brawls which miraculously never turned into something worse than a broken nose and some bruises ( _sweet Yavanna,_ the very fact that he, a gentle-hobbit, could find a broken nose a thing of minor concern!).

Still, Bilbo was enjoying himself.

He did not understand all customs. Thorin had taught him many things about Khazâd and others he had picked up from Bofur, Ori, Balin, Dís, and all his... _friends_ , yes, his friends in Erebor. He hardly felt an expert on the subject of dwarf culture, but it was a start - he knew that he had walked a long way, longer than the road laying between Bag End and the Lonely Mountain. And the best part was that he could take pleasure in the time he spent among dwarves, he could dance and laugh with them, share in their food and in their stories (stories of treasures and blood, but of love and loyalty as well).

He was not one of them, but somehow he _belonged_ \- not to their culture, but to their heart.

This thought Bilbo played and replayed in the depths of his mind, shielding it from crude light, still too shy to confess it to his friends. Once Thorin had laughed at the idea that a hobbit could be his friend. Bilbo had not forgotten, though he had forgiven the prince his arrogance; that memory made him cautious, despite the fact that their kisses should have been proof that he and Thorin had gone past the point of friendship.

Yet Bilbo did not mean to waste the night musing upon his feelings for the prince. There was too much food on the table and too many songs played to be in such a pensive mood. And he had been a great success, hadn’t he?

“Yes, you were,” Dís said, patting his arm. Bilbo realised that he had spoken aloud his last thought and smiled timidly at Dís’s broad grin. “So great that my husband is burning up with jealousy. He may be my father’s councillor, but adad has never been so gracious with him. Neither has Hepti ever cut such a fine figure as you do tonight in these clothes,” she chuckled, lifting her cup in her husband’s direction.

Heptifili, who was currently seated on Bilbo’s right, gave a grunt, swallowed a mouthful of salted pork, and glared at his wife.

“You see, she’s teasing. Her father _likes_ me. Quite a great deal, as it happens,” he pointed out, his natural fastidiousness sharpened by drinking. “The problem is that he adores her more than he likes me, so when he had to decide against whom he should hold a grudge for our marriage - it was a fairly damned business, with her announcing our secret engagement to the whole court and threatening to run away with me and curse the bloody Mountain if she could not have her way...well, he just couldn’t hurt his darling princess, so he takes it out on me. _Master Heptifili here, Master Heptifili there!_ , as if I was a dwarfling without a proper beard on my face. Well in fact I’m not, I’m a prince. By marriage. I’ve got rights,” he hiccupped. “She and her brothers, spoiled from the first to the last. Even Thorin should know better than betting with Frerin...”

“Yes, you’ve got rights,” Dís conceded a little belatedly, leaving her seat and grabbing her husband by the arm. He let her haul him to his feet. “For example, the right to dance with me until your legs give way under you, Master Heptifili.”

“See? She terrifies me,” Hepti whined, while he was dragged to join the dances.

“Doesn’t hold his ale,” Frerin commented, slipping in Hepti’s empty chair. Bilbo had seen him dancing and flirting, dressed in dark velvet and gold, as lively and pleasant as could be when his vanity was satisfied and his self-confidence found such a large and compliant public. “I, on the other hand, have learnt how to master the art of drinking as much as anyone here and will still be on my feet at dawn, my rubies upon my head,” he said, touching lightly the precious crown upon his brow. “I don’t mean to lose a single dance if I can. Speaking of which, you should dance with me again. You’re quite good for a halfling,” Frerin teased him, smiling.

“You too. For a dwarf, that is,” Bilbo replied, unimpressed.

The prince laughed and the crown almost slipped down from his head. He grabbed it in time, with the air of having repeated the same gesture over and over again and never having failed at it.

“My sister’s right. Adad was pleased with your presentation earlier. Now most of us are too busy eating, drinking, and dancing to care about it, but a few hours ago having a hobbit pay his homage to the King under the Mountain wasn’t a matter of scarce importance. And it’s going to be marvellous again tomorrow. You’re the first hobbit who has ever been seen in Erebor, Bilbo, and the first hobbit friend of Durin’s line. What are you going to do with it?” Frerin asked, observing him with amusement.

“Wiser things than you would have done had you been the first dwarf ever seen in the Shire,” Gandalf replied.

The wizard had been talking with Kings - Thráin and Thranduil, the Elven sire of the Woodland Realm, but he seemed well-pleased to find a place by Bilbo’s side. This continuous change of seats, this chaos of coming and going between one dance and the next was a little overwhelming in Bilbo’s opinion, but it was pleasant to get the chance to talk with so many.  

“That’s why you suggested sending Thorin there - despite his sunny disposition, he seemed to have won at least one hobbit to our cause,” Frerin pointed out, winking at Bilbo in the most embarrassing way.

The hobbit took care to hide his face in his cup. When he lowered it, Frerin had enticed someone else into a vivacious dance and only Gandalf remained.

“Sometimes even a fool speaks the truth,” the wizard commented evenly.

“Things have changed a little since you left.”

“So I’m told, my friend.”

“And how difficult it must be to not say _exactly as I predicted_!” Bilbo chuckled.

“Very difficult indeed,” Gandalf smiled. “Yet I’m so accustomed to such words that this time I shall spare you. In truth, both you and Thorin can be so wilfully blind at times that I wasn’t so sure of the success of your stay here. Now I see that you’ve grown very learned in dwarf-lore, while Thorin has...”

Bilbo could not hear what Thorin had done since the last time Gandalf had seen him, since Fíli joined them and asked the sort of questions you ask a wizard if you get the chance.

“Can I see the fireworks?”

“These are other words you must be used to,” Bilbo commented, smiling at the eager expression on Fíli’s face. He could not know what his expression had been when - as a fauntling - he had made the same request to the wizard. Yet he remembered having seen Gandalf’s eyes flood with the same gladness when hobbitlings pestered him about fireworks, as if such a simple question could vanquish some of the evil of the world.

 _Dwarves and hobbits may not be so different after all - we may seek peace and enjoyment over other things_. They said Khazâd loved nothing over gold and their pride, but that might be proven untrue. He had seen them in love with humbler things - with the mechanical toys they could create, with the bearing of their spouse, with the company of their friend and family, with the songs they sang.

They were flawed, but not accursed - if some evil was in them, it was the sort of evil that lay in every creature’s heart.

“I may have brought something,” Gandalf said, interrupting Bilbo’s reveries. “Let me think where I’ve hidden it. Ah-ah, there, I remember now.” The wizard touched Fíli’s ear and Bilbo had to keep himself in check not to ask how Gandalf manages it - yes, he would have asked after all these years of wizard’s tricks and things hidden behind his hobbit ears.

True to his reputation, Gandalf showed Fíli a little firework wrapped in green paper. The dwarfling was clearly torn between the eagerness to know how it had been hidden behind his ear all the time and the desire to see the actual firework, but the latter prevailed - Gandalf sent the firework flying over the dancing crowd. The motion of the wizard’s hands had been so casual and confident that Bilbo could not say what had really happened, but the firework rose higher and higher and the hobbit almost lost sight of it in the dark shadow of the vault of the King’s hall. Then, when he thought that something had gone wrong, the intricate carvings of the vault were lit up by green waves of sparkles glistening like grass under the sun. Their tips turned red in a few moments, poppies blossoming over the enchanted crowd. A roar of cheers, laughter, and songs came from the whole court, someone shouted _Tharkûn_ , dwarflings cried in sheer delight.  

“A little something from the Shire for the Khazâd of Erebor,” Gandalf hummed, raising his grey eyes to the show of his firework, which was now turning into silver drops.

“Like Bilbo,” Fíli piped in.

“Dwarves,” the hobbit grumbled. “Trust them to be blunt.”

Yet he filled for Fíli a plate with some sweets - cranberry sauce, apple pie, custard tart, dried peaches dipped in chocolate. The dwarfling sat on a stool, perfectly at ease between his strange friends - a wizard and a hobbit, eating as much as talking, and amusing Gandalf with his version of Bilbo’s last weeks in Erebor.

“Amad says no one smacks uncle Thorin like Bilbo does,” Fíli declared, licking his spoon clean of the drops of cranberry sauce. He probably guessed something was wrong from Bilbo’s panicked look, for he added a little sheepishly: “It’s true. Adad and uncle Frerin were there when she said it. And it’s not a _secret_ , she said so herself.”

“I’m sure your mother didn’t say _smack_. I’ve never smacked your uncle, though I’ve been quite tempted to do it from time to time.”

“She said it _metaphorically_ ,” Fíli retorted, rolling his eyes before taking his plate away when his uncle Glóin appeared with little Gimli. Fíli scuttled to meet his young companion, while Gandalf raised his brow and looked at Bilbo

“I may have taught him what _metaphorically_ means,” the hobbit admitted. “Never thought he would use it against me.”

“And I never thought _Naugrim_ could be accused of having a penchant for twisting words when they deal so clumsily with them. It seems there’s still something I’ve not seen in this age - like a hobbit at the court of the King under the Mountain.”

For a few moments, stunned into silence by the sudden approach of King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, Bilbo stared at the elf. He seemed even taller and more beautiful than he had looked at Thráin’s side, more powerful and graceful than when he had crossed the great hall and paid his homage to the King at the very beginning of the Mahalmerag celebrations. Though Bilbo had met many elves since the beginning of his journey and had sat at Lord Elrond’s table, Thranduil Oropherion seemed to incarnate better than anyone else the distant splendour - cold as starlight - one would expect from such noble folk.

Then Bilbo’s Tookish streak kicked in and he peered up at Thranduil as if talking with Kings of legend had become a daily matter to Master Baggins of Bag End.

“Never known _Elves_ to have a penchant for picking up the wrong word over the right one,” he said, holding Thranduil’s gaze, never mind the fact that such a stare put him into a cold sweat. “ _Gonnhirrim_ may be the word you were looking for.”

 _Naugrim_ , Bilbo knew, was a Sindarin insult for Khazâd - it meant _stunted people_ and it had been forged when curses and threats were exchanged between dwarves and elves. But there was a word for the time of friendship, when dwarves would be called Stone-lords, _Gonnhirrim_. This Bilbo had learnt long before he had ever dreamt of finding himself at the court of a Dwarf King, but never forgotten.

“A hobbit who speaks Khuzdul before the King under the Mountain, then corrects the King of Greenwood on the use of his mother tongue” Thranduil commented, his voice rich and neat like his clothes. “Where have you found him, Mithrandir? And how have you persuaded the _Gonnhirrim_ to take him in?” he asked, without taking his eyes off Bilbo.

“Bag End, the Shire,” the hobbit interposed, without giving Gandalf any time to speak. “That’s where I come from.”

Bilbo had been particularly taken with the elegant, exotic appearance of King Thranduil. Though he had travelled through Greenwood on his journey to Erebor, he had not been admitted to the King’s presence; so it was the first time that he could lay his eyes on the mysterious Thranduil Thorin seemed to despise so fiercely. He was the greatest elven lord of these lands, a living legend well-known for being proud and resentful - and one of the reasons why prince Thorin had been sent to the Shire before his temper could turn him into the object of Thranduil’s unrelenting hate.

In truth, whereas Thorin had led Bilbo before Thráin, presenting him to the King under the Mountain - a solid, comforting presence the hobbit had appreciated beyond words - Bilbo had been the one discreetly squeezing Thorin’s knee when the prince had almost snapped at one of Thranduil’s less gracious remarks at dinner. How fortunate that this time he and Thorin had been sitting side by side at the King’s table and that his touch had curbed the prince’s rage to quiet sulking.

At least Bilbo now understood something about Thorin’s attitude toward this particular Elf and he was unwilling to allow Thranduil’s inopportune comments to go unchecked.

“I made my own way among dwarves as I’d have made my way among Elves and learnt more of your language and culture, King of Greenwood. Yet I’m not used to going where I’m not welcome, lest I end up in a cell rather than a guest room.”

“A cell?” Thranduil repeated, his smooth features untouched by the surprise he feigned in his voice. “Has prince Thorin been recalling that unfortunate episode? If he had not trespassed during his hunting and raised his bow against the white stag, he wouldn’t have spent a single night in Greenwood’s dungeons.”

Bilbo gaped a little at that, for he had never heard of such a tale.

“That unfortunate episode was cleared up and apologies offered by both sides, if I recall correctly,” Gandalf coughed.

“Oh yes. And prince Thorin sent to the West to make friends among halflings.”

“ _Hobbits_ ,” Bilbo corrected him, rising to his feet, hands on his hips. “Your Majesty keeps choosing the wrong word.”

This time a sharp smile appeared on Thranduil’s mouth. He leant over the hobbit, studying him with care from head to foot. Bilbo was tempted to squirm under such an intense examination, but he forced himself to stillness.   

“I’m sure that only prince Thorin’s pride suffered from that brief imprisonment,” the elf said, startling Bilbo with the touch of his pale hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. “After all he was underground, in darkness. I’m told Gonnhirrim love both.” Thranduil’s gaze was no longer fixed on Bilbo’s face. He realised that his braids had caught the elf’s eye and that he was going to touch them. Bilbo abruptly stepped back, breaking the spell of such a beautiful creature looming over him. “What’s your opinion about it, Master Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, the Shire?” Thranduil asked, almost sneering now that the hobbit had refused to be pliant under his touch. “You’ve clearly become acquainted with their customs,” his eyes narrowed, “braids and jewels, and... _mithril_. I see, oh I see.”

 _What do you see, you clothead?_ Bilbo was going to say to Thranduil’s stupidly amused face. He did not know why the sight of mithril should have brought such mirth to the Elvenking’s countenance, but he had heard enough to guess - some teasing remark about dwarves and their ways, undoubtedly. Bilbo would not let Thorin’s gift be spoiled by the word of His Haughtiness the King of Greenwood, diplomacy be damned.

He would have given Thranduil a piece of his mind, if something had not collided with him and then enclosed him in a bear-hug. Half-choking, Bilbo saw out of the corner of his eye Thranduil’s vaguely appalled expression and heard Gandalf mutter something about the greater matters of the world, inviting the elf to leave the young people to their fun.

“I’m a middle-aged respectable gentle-hobbit!” Bilbo whimpered, in a swirl of arms and legs.

The embrace was loosened and someone patted his back, while laughter erupted around him. Since the Elvenking and Gandalf were no longer in sight, the hobbit was ready to redirect his fury to whoever had planned to squeeze him to bits. He raised his finger and narrowed his eyes, and he found Bofur, Bifur and Bombur.

“ _You_!”

“Who else, Master Gentle-Hobbit?” Bofur laughed.

“Maybe he was expecting another King,” Bombur added, grinning.

“Uzbad-dashat” Bofur offered.

Bilbo blushed - _uzbad-dashat_ meant _prince_ in Khuzdul and he could not pretend that he was not waiting for Thorin to reappear at his side. Thorin had left his seat some time before the beginning of the dances to join his father the King at the head of the table and confer with some of the guests - men from Dale and dwarves from the Iron Hills. Dís and Frerin had their own share of talking, greeting, flattering the courtiers; yet it was Thorin who held the greatest political responsibility after his father. So Bilbo could not really complain, though he would have liked...

“Are you going to dance with me, Master Hobbit?” Bofur asked, eyes alight with ale and the thrill of the great feast. Yes, the great feast the toymakers were not supposed to take part in.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh well, we got an invitation, didn’t we?” Bombur muttered, his mouth stuffed with whatever he had just stolen from the plates on the table. Bifur was helping himself to a generous cup of ale.

“He asks what we’re doing here, yes...” Bofur smiled, leaving Bilbo under the impression that there was some joke the three dwarves were not sharing with him.

“Uzbad-dashat,” Bifur repeated, his moustache glistening with foam.

“We’re here on prince Thorin’s invitation,” Bofur explained patiently, before Bilbo’s blank stare. “We saw your presentation to the King - a very fine thing to see, we’re really proud of you my friend! We ate most of our dinner at one of the tables there,” he gestured toward the other end of the great hall. “But we figured out that now that everybody is changing seat and dancing and getting drunk it would be easy for you to find some time for us.”

“Thorin invited you here!” Bilbo repeated, astonished.

“Yes, yes. You’re his friend, we’re your friends...nothing wrong with that.”

The winks between brothers and cousin made the hobbit a little uneasy, but the pleasure of seeing them and knowing that they had enjoyed the great celebrations of the King’s circle prevailed. Besides, some time had passed since his dances with Fíli, Frerin, and Dís. He felt full of energy, his feet were tingling, and he was willing to put Fíli’s teaching to the test.

“Come on, let’s dance,” he said, taking Bofur’s hand and tugging him between the tables, among the other dancers.

 

Bilbo Baggins danced and danced. He danced among dwarves dressed in their richest garments, gems and gold and silver gleaming in the light of the torches and the mirrors. The air was thick with spices and smoke, sweat and ale; it rang with cheers and laughter, blessings in the name of Aulë Mahal and court gossip. Khazâd displayed their pride and their wealth. They did so without shame, the same folk who could grow so sombre over their own history, over the memory of the battles they had fought and the lands they had deserted (Thorin had never seen the Grey Mountains of his ancestors - still, longing was in his voice when he sang or spoke of them). Stubborn, greedy, foolish Khazâd - yet bold and loyal, and unexpectedly generous with their friends. Getting to know them had been Bilbo’s adventure, started with Thorin stepping into his garden rather than with Bilbo stepping out of his door to join Gandalf.

“Many I have this dance?”

Suddenly the arms around him were Thorin’s.

He had changed dance partner since he had left the table with Bofur. It seemed that the choice of dancing partner did not matter so much with dwarves - no expectations lay in the number of dances one could devote to another. The figures of dwarf dances were more complicated and bothersome than those taught to hobbitlings, but it had more to do with the penchant of Khazâd for complicating things rather than with any symbolism.

So Bilbo had left behind his scruples and danced at his pleasure even with complete strangers, moving from one partner to another in a swirl that had left him with his cheeks pink from exertion and excitement, his eyes gleaming, and his clothes a little ruffled.

Yet he was most thrilled at finding himself led into the next dance by Thorin.

“You’ve already taken it,” he grumbled good-humouredly, placing his hands on Thorin’s broad shoulders and revelling in the weight of the dwarf’s hands on his hips.

“Do you mind?” the prince inquired, raising his brow before the next figure separated them.

They looked at each other while a couple of dwarves made their way between the two columns of the other dancers and Bilbo found himself mirroring Thorin’s smile.

“No, not really,” he admitted as soon as he and the dwarf were closer again, hands touching.

“Good,” Thorin nodded, squeezing his fingers. Separated again.

“I thought that I had lost you,” Bilbo said at the next turn. “I saw you here and there, always talking to someone. Never dancing though.”

“I’m here,” Thorin assured him while they turned together, moving around in time with the other couples.

“I thought you didn’t mean to dance.”

“I never said I wouldn’t dance with you.”

“You never said you _would_ either,” Bilbo pointed out a little breathlessly after a particularly complex figure. “You didn’t dance with me when Fíli was teaching me these figures.”

“I was saving it for tonight,” Thorin replied nonchalantly - though the hobbit’s heart raced.

“Your sister said you were terrible at dancing,” Bilbo said, in order to distract himself from the beating of his own heart before Thorin could feel it through their clothes. “You aren’t.”

It was true. Thorin did not have Frerin’s confidence nor Bofur’s quick instinct, nor did he manage to look stunning like his sister - she was not really good, but she knew how to hide it and make a grand impression. On the other hand, Thorin was not as bad as his siblings had suggested. A little stiff (he would probably find hobbit dances more challenging) and not always gracious, but his movements were neat and precise. He led with great care, never leaving his dance partner behind, never imposing his lead but offering it, always reliable and composed and...he was good - _they_ were good, dancing together.

“Have you not learnt that half of what my sister says about me can’t be trusted?” Thorin asked, though he did not seem annoyed.

In fact there was something different about him, as if no one could really ruin the evening for him - an unusual mood for the prince, who was usually prone to have his temper tickled by the smallest slights. It suited him, this change.

“You look happy,” Bilbo blurted out, though he had been thinking about how handsome the prince looked in his blue garments and the dark crown upon his head.

He felt Thorin’s big hand pressed between his shoulder blades and Thorin’s dark hair brushed his cheek.

“I am happy,” he whispered, as if it was a secret between them.

They danced in silence for a while, basking in each other’s presence, in the touch of their bodies, in the intertwining of their hands. Then Bilbo’s curiosity prevailed.

“Bofur the toymaker is here with his cousin and his brother. On your invitation,” he said, maybe a little too accusingly.

“They’re your friends,” the dwarf answered, as if that was enough of an explanation.

“That didn’t stop you from complaining about my visits to them.”

“I may have been...”

“...jealous?” Bilbo supplied and then they were separated again.

“I have reason to be. You’re most admired after your presentation to my father,” Thorin replied, taking the hobbit in his arms again and pressing a furtive kiss to his temple, as furtive as it could be among dwarves drunken on ale and merriment. “There’s word that you’ve given King Thranduil something to think about. _The melekûn who speaks to Kings_ \- ah, there’s going to be a song about it!”

“Oh please, no!” Bilbo moaned, blushing. “I prefer princes to kings,” he added, for a little flirting of his own.

Thorin smiled and seemed on the point of saying something, but they had to part for the sake of the dance. When they were reunited, something else was on the hobbit’s mind.

“You promised to tell me about the other beads. The wooden one for example...”

 

*

 

“Listen, listen,” Thorin hissed on his lips, but Bilbo bit his mouth and then licked the sting.

The dwarf pressed him against the wall, almost hauling him up with the impetus of his embrace. The wall was cold against Bilbo’s back, Thorin’s buckle and jewels poked his stomach at the most inopportune moments, and he had already found his mouth full of the fur hem of Thorin’s overcoat. Plus, Thorin’s crown kept slipping down the prince’s forehead, knocking against Bilbo’s, and they had to stop time after time in order for Thorin to adjust the thing on his head.

It was, in other words, as uncomfortable a kiss as Bilbo had ever experienced. And it was glorious.

He felt as if his hands were never empty, always finding Thorin’s hair, Thorin’s lovely face, Thorin’s broad shoulders, Thorin’s fingers stroking his. And his lips were overflowing with kisses, falling wherever they could - nose, beard, nose again (that sharp, big thing that had intimidated him for so long!), ear, neck, knuckles. His nostrils quivered with the tingle of the dwarf’s sweat, his tongue tasted cranberries on Thorin’s lips. And the wonder of Thorin’s voice, husky and warm, breath curling against his ear and his cheek while the dwarf called his name. It took Bilbo a little while to realise that Thorin _did_ want some response from him.

“Bilbo, listen, just...” he heard him gasp. “Listen,” he repeated, a little more firmly, trapping Bilbo’s face between his big hands and leaning until their foreheads touched.

“I’m here,” the hobbit murmured with a little smile.

He did not know exactly how they had got there - it was a bit of a blur since they had started dancing. They had done it for many songs and ballads, never really changing partner but for the figures which strictly required it. Then, both out of breath, they had retired to a quiet corner behind the row of high pillars. Bilbo remembered that they had had mugs in their hands - just water this time, to quench the thirst and clear their heads. They had talked about the feast and the dwarves’ traditions regarding Aulë Mahal; they had talked about themselves, close but not quite touching - oh, how Bilbo had missed the embrace of their dancing then!

No one had sought them though they had been interrupted by some courtiers paying their homage, and it had felt only natural that they should be left to themselves. At last Thorin had touched his hand, almost shyly, and asked Bilbo if he wanted to take a walk far from the crowd, the noise, the increasingly overwhelming stench of food and bodies.

It had been unclear where they should take their walk when the whole Mountain was celebrating. They had instinctively preferred the more deserted corridors and passages. Emboldened by their solitude, they had kissed in dark corners, laughing at their own silliness - _we have rooms at our disposal,_ Bilbo had pointed out with a grin. Yet they had lingered where someone could have come upon them at any moment rather than taking their kisses to the privacy of Thorin’s or Bilbo’s quarters. The hobbit was almost on the verge of doing something about that, when Thorin spoke.  

“You...you’re brave. The bravest creature I...”

“You may be drunker than I thought.”

“Hush. I’m sober,” the prince muttered, frowning so charmingly that Bilbo was compelled to smile. “You _are_ brave. I didn’t know at the beginning and it took me so long to understand, now I see how much courage it takes to try to know and appreciate another culture. I was so afraid and blind...but you, you possess the courage to leave your garden for the world. I faulted you, Bilbo. Will you forgive me?”

“Of course I forgive you,” the hobbit whispered, caressing the dwarf’s cheek.

He had already heard similar words, after he had saved Fíli’s life. He had been unwilling to believe them then, because they spoke only of his courage in the dark mine pit. But these new words, this speaking of his other deeds, of his efforts to be a loyal friend despite the fact that he belonged to another culture...

“This is what I’ve so longed to hear from you,” Bilbo admitted candidly.

“Forgive me for speaking so late,” Thorin sighed, leaning against the hobbit. Then his embrace grew less tender, his voice deeper. “You don’t know what seeing you clad in my colours does to my self-control.”

“Your colours? Oh,” Bilbo gaped, realising that he was indeed dressed in blue and black and grey, exactly like the prince. Some of Dís’s and Frerin’s teasing made sense now, but he would scold them another time. He was much more interested in Thorin’s self-restraint - in breaking it, as a matter of fact. He took a deep breath and peered up at the prince. “Would you mind if I accompanied you to your rooms?”

Thorin’s head snapped upright and he looked at Bilbo as if he could not believe his ears. There was some uncertainty in his gaze before he bowed his head and brought Bilbo’s hand to his mouth. He kissed it with some reverence, his warm lips lingering on the skin.

“Are you sure?”


	16. You Did It

His early-rising habit did not betray him the morning after - Thorin woke up first in the dim light of the dying embers. Memories did not slot in place to gradually compose the picture of the past night, instead they charged at him from the back of his mind, filling his consciousness to the brim until Thorin found himself breathless, eyelids fluttering helplessly. The drum of his heart was in his temple and in his stomach, and further down, hardening his already flushed prick. Without a second thought Thorin closed his hand around it, tugging slightly to check the state of his arousal. He had to suppress a moan at the way his flesh felt raw and sensitive - he bit his lip and swallowed his gasps, set as he was on leaving Bilbo to sleep a little longer.

 _Bilbo_.

Thorin had not taken a glance at him yet, but he felt the weight of Bilbo’s foot numbing his right leg and Bilbo’s fingertips over his hip. It was the lightest touch, yet it burnt like a claim and left Thorin with the desire to press those fingers harder against his flesh, until he could sport their mark on his skin. And there was the sound of Bilbo’s breath, so soft and even that it made Thorin think that the melekûn was trying to be polite and unobtrusive even in his sleep. Deeper than anything else was the consciousness of Bilbo’s bare, tender body sharing blankets and furs with him. They were not in each other’s arms, their legs were not tangled and they were not holding hands, yet Bilbo’s body was the sharpest point of reality touched by Thorin’s awakening mind. The dip of the mattress under Bilbo’s limbs pinned Thorin’s heart, restrained the flight it would have taken and kept it from making plans when no promises had been exchanged yet.

There was only so much Thorin’s eyes could make out in the dusky light of dawn, but his mind supplied the missing details, picking them out from recollections of the past night. The blur of Bilbo’s features thus came into focus through the memory of how he had looked when he had lowered himself on Thorin’s lap - his usually gentle expression marred by eagerness, his blue-grey eyes darker in the bloom of the pupil, his lips tight when he had sucked in a breath. The pattern of freckles on his shoulders and chest, invisible in the shadows, was all over Thorin’s hands and tongue, for he had stroked those patches over and over, tasted sweat and soap over them, mouthed the flecked flesh at Bilbo’s insistence.

A few hours before dawn they had woken up from their light slumber at almost the same time, hands pinching, tugging, parting before their minds were entirely alert. Thorin had been only mildly surprised when he had realised that his craving had not been doused after their first coupling. He no longer deluded himself with the thought that he was spurred by sheer physical urge and he found some comfort in the belief that it was the same for his hobbit lover.

 _Lover_. _Ulnas_.

The word lingered on Thorin’s dry lips. He wondered if he could wake Bilbo to such a word, rolling it down the curve of his stomach, pressing it into his small pink navel, then through the fair curls at the base of his prick. He had already taken a taste of the melekûn’s skin and he remembered very well how Bilbo’s prick had felt on his tongue, salty and slick with pre-come, smoother and thicker than Thorin had expected. He wondered what it would be like to have Bilbo come in his mouth, wriggling his pretty cock between his lips until it would soften - _I would keep it in my mouth_ , sucking it dry to be sure that the melekûn would feel the soreness of his pleasure for hours, a tingling heat between his soft thighs.  

The thought left Thorin aching with desire; still, he did not wake Bilbo.

His body could wait, while he satisfied his heart with the sight of the hobbit in his bed. He remembered that time after the incident in the mines, when he had stayed by Bilbo’s bedside while the melekûn was unconscious - then he had felt so guilty and mortified for watching him in his sleep, but now he had become entitled to appreciate the sight, as well as the chance to pet Bilbo’s hair at his pleasure - he had done so throughout the night. The first time he had come with his fingers carding through Bilbo’s hair while he was driving his prick into the quivering heat of the body folded beneath his; later, their stomachs and thighs cleaned of their mingled seed with a damp towel, Bilbo had pushed his head just under his chin and Thorin had dozed off with the melekûn’s damp curls tickling his beard and sweet nonsense buzzing in his ear.

Cautiously, Thorin reached out with his hand to feel the cold of the metal beads among the tousled hair. He could recall the way the beads had looked while they were dancing and how he had felt then, with the melekûn in his arms before the whole court - _euphoric_ in a way that had almost made him reckless to the point of kissing Bilbo in public.

He had tempered his desire though, uncertain about how far he could take things without offending Bilbo’s sensibilities. He had tried to be patient and unassuming, to curb his natural instinct to dispose of things and people to serve the Kingdom’s greater good as well as his pride. He had tried to accept the fact that they were both responsible for what would happen between them and that Bilbo would never be one to be passively swept off his feet, not even by a prince of Durin’s blood. Neither had Thorin planned - not consciously - to give course to his craving, but dancing had led to kisses, and kisses to more kisses and caresses, to their bodies rutting against each other in dark corridors; eventually to Bilbo’s question.   

“Would you mind if I accompanied you to your rooms?”

Thorin had not honestly expected it. _Wanted_ , yes, but not anticipated. The hobbit, faithful to his habit of surprising him, had looked slightly exhilarated, but not drunk. In fact there had been a firmness to Bilbo’s tone that had made Thorin shiver with anticipation - the politeness of the question was a weak disguise for the demand it represented. Still, Thorin had been reluctant to act upon it.

“Are you sure?” he had asked dully.

In truth his ability to resist such an offer had already been beaten; Bilbo’s hand, brazenly cupping him through his trousers, had only wiped his mind clean of the ruins. Considering this, Thorin had admirably waited for the privacy of his bedroom before starting to strip the melekûn of his clothes.

Going through the layers of the dwarf garments to find the smooth, almost hairless skin so peculiarly un-dwarfish had increased his lust to the point that he had almost spent himself there and then, his hands mapping the melekûn’s body beneath velvet and fur, the weight of gems and leather over his knuckles, yielding flesh under his fingers and nails.

He had taken care to leave the mithril shirt for last, taking delight in the way its hem brushed against Bilbo’s hardened cock - he had fondled it in long firm strokes, its heat branding his palm and his memory as well, while the melekûn gasped and stumbled against the bed. Bilbo had fallen onto the mattress with his legs already parted as if to welcome Thorin’s touch, his private parts on show from the rosy, glistening tip of his cock to the sack under it, taut with seed.

Further down, Thorin had found the little strip of sensitive flesh just behind his stones (he had pressed his tongue on it later, basking in the wrecked moan it had stolen from Bilbo), then the small ring of muscle between the melekûn’s cheeks. Oh, the way Bilbo had thrashed, his head turning right and left, hands fisted into the sheets, when Thorin had swiped the rim of his hole with his dry thumb! Thorin had bent over him, biting Bilbo’s nipples through the mithril and feeling its cold grain under his teeth, before divesting him of the shirt as well.

Only the beads had been left in place, his and Bilbo’s. They represented a claim Thorin felt most deeply about and he had gladly indulged the melekûn’s curiosity about the meaning of each bead.

“Wood is more familiar to melekûnh than metal,” the prince had explained, when Bilbo had inquired about the unusual choice of wood for one of the beads. The number of dwarves dancing had increased along with their boasting and drinking; it was easier to refuse to exchange partner even when the dance required it. “I know your kin value plants above jewels, so I thought that a wooden bead would represent your race better than a metal one, showing that you find happiness in the things that grow and bear fruit. I carved it with a floral motif, though I fear that it isn’t really good - I’m not used to carving leaves and flowers and...”

The look in Bilbo’s eyes had made Thorin lose his words, for he was not used to be looked at with such open affection. Even Dís did not express her love for him so openly, but Master Baggins had always been transparent about his feelings, since that first time in Bag End when he had confessed his wish to make friends. Yet - this was something which had taken Thorin a while to understand - the fact that Bilbo wore his heart on his sleeve did not mean that its feelings were of no consequence. Bilbo’s honesty did not make him a simpleton in this regard; he felt as deeply and fiercely as Thorin had ever been capable of.

Bilbo moved in his sleep, kicking Thorin’s legs in the process and managing to snuggle closer. His mouth was damp against Thorin’s right breast, his arm heavy where it was draped around the dwarf’s waist. And his prick was half-hard where it pressed against Thorin’s thigh. _I could get used to this_ Thorin thought, a laugh rising in his throat at the idea that, as soon as he woke up, Bilbo would not know what to be more embarrassed about - the drooling or the fact that he was rubbing himself against the prince’s muscular thigh.

Thorin found that he did not mind either - in fact he thought Bilbo’s snuggling quite endearing. He placed a light kiss to Bilbo’s brow, smiling at the way the hobbit scrunched his nose in his sleep. Thorin saw that the small braid sporting the silver bead with Bilbo’s family name was slightly loose - he would redo it as soon as possible, but Bilbo would probably insist on having breakfast first.

Sooner or later Thorin would have to leave the bed and arrange for a large breakfast to be brought to his rooms. He had learnt enough about melekûnh to know that Bilbo would not only appreciate the gesture, but demand it. His lover’s appetite would never cease to amaze Thorin, especially given that dwarves were quite formidable eaters; yet he had grown to like the way food made Bilbo happy and he meant to give his hobbit plenty of chances to taste and cook at his leisure. A bigger, more furnished kitchen could be built for Bilbo; new ingredients and recipes could be sought in Dale and the neighbouring lands; for his part Thorin would make a habit of sharing as many meals as possible with his hobbit.

 _You fool_ he said to himself.

He could not make arrangements in his head without taking Bilbo’s opinion into account. Still it was very difficult to ignore the fact that the melekûn had been most affectionate throughout the night and Thorin had no doubt that Bilbo cared about him. He could not - _would not_ \- make a guess about the extent of Bilbo’s feelings, but if Bilbo’s passion and his tenderness were anything to go by...

“Thorin.”

“Yes?”

 _Mahal_ , he did sound eager, didn’t he? His arm cradled Bilbo closer to his chest, his mouth was ready to swallow his next words in a kiss, but the melekûn did not open his eyes. He just smiled vaguely and patted Thorin’s cheek.

“Go back to sleep,” he ordered.

Then he slipped back into slumber, leaving Thorin slightly disappointed at such an anticlimactic outcome. Still, his annoyance melted in the face of Bilbo’s pleased expression and he felt quite content rubbing circles over the melekûn’s back, brushing the light marks left by the creases in the sheets, and spreading warmth down Bilbo’s spine. Bilbo kept sleeping through the caresses, but he sighed happily and Thorin - well, Thorin felt as if he had just learnt how to breathe.

Quite expected, since he had spent most of the night losing his breath over how charming and maddening Bilbo was. He had gasped and stuttered when the melekûn had let his mouth wander down his stomach and nosed the trail of black hair leading further down, where his cock had been pleading for attention; when fingers had drummed their way up his thigh and over his balls, stroking and warming the darker skin until Thorin’s hips had bucked and jerked and he had given a pathetic, strangled wail. Bilbo had taken pity on him then, and dragged his tongue from the base of his cock up to the crown, pushing its tip against the small slit at the top.

“A golden bead for your tongue,” Thorin had said to him earlier.

Bilbo had giggled at that. They had been taking some rest from the dancing and, watching Bilbo laugh, Thorin had thought about tasting the lingering flavour of Greenwood wine on his mouth. Bilbo’s hand had been on his forearm, a friendly gesture no one had seemed to notice except Thorin himself. Some courtiers had approached them to pay their homage to the prince and Master Baggins the Khazâd-bâhu, but Thorin’s reputation for having a bad temper had been enough to keep their tongues in check, at least in his presence. There would be rumours about him and Bilbo for the weeks to come, but he could not find it in himself to care.

Bilbo had been showing off a little, practising his Khuzdul in brief speeches and traditional Mahalmerag wishes. His pronunciation was not always correct, yet he had worked it to a peculiar, but not unpleasant, accent - Thorin fancied that it resembled the accent of the dwarves from Ered Luin. His vocabulary was not very large and his grammar failed him from time to time; yet he was cunning enough to make the most of his limited knowledge, to the point that many of his interlocutors were deceived about the extent of his learning.

After the umpteenth praise Bilbo had received, Thorin had decided to reveal the meaning of the golden bead.

“Is it a compliment?” the melekûn had asked, smiling.

“It’s a reward for your accomplishment. It says that you’ve been allowed to learn Khuzdul and that you’ve learnt how to speak the language of our forefathers. May you always use it with honour,” he had added, the formality of his bidding softened by the brush of his thumb over Bilbo’s knuckles.

“You haven’t always been so agreeable about my wish to learn your language,” Bilbo had pointed out. “I understand why - I’m not a merchant who needs to master several languages to carry on his business in foreign lands, neither a wanderer or a scholar. I love words and books, but it’s not just that. It’s me trying to understand the feeling behind the words. Trying to understand you. Your people.”

“You truly are golden-tongued,” Thorin had commented, not quite able to keep the emotion out of his voice. “Your desire to learn does you honour indeed,” he had murmured, though his thoughts had been less about honour and more about how close he had been to overlooking and dismissing such a quality.

“Khi muneb guruth biratazriri aktâb ma nekha urasgânu azbâh,” Bilbo had replied, quoting a traditional saying.

“Azafr sagshari sabhari.”

“And what have you happened to learn, Your Highness?”

Once they had left the ball Thorin had learnt that _golden-tongued_ was a title Bilbo deserved on many grounds; for the little Khuzdul endearments and encouragements he would whisper into Thorin’s ear, making his blood sing with ferocious want, and for the flicker of his wicked tongue upon the prince’s flesh. By then Thorin’s breath had turned into a hoarse, wretched thing. He had not even cared about the undignified sounds he had been making while Bilbo popped the head of his cock in and out of his mouth.

He had cared, instead, about not coming too soon, though the idea of filling the melekûn’s mouth with his seed had been appealing; but he had applied himself to ruining the rhythm of Bilbo’s breath as well before dawn. Thorin’s technique might have been less neat than Bilbo’s, yet the melekûn had not really complained when Thorin had taken him deep into his mouth without any further warning than the dwarf’s arm over his waist, pinning him down against the mattress. He had even drooled a little around Bilbo’s cock, eagerness making him sloppy and greedy, and the melekûn’s pleas had delighted him almost as much as his nimble fingers tugging at his hair and keeping his head in place while Bilbo thrust between his lips.

He had not been displeased to find out that the melekûn had some experience. Though introducing him to such pleasures would have been interesting and would have appeased Thorin’s possessiveness, the fact that neither of them was ignorant on those matters had made it easier to voice their desires and act accordingly. And what little awkwardness Thorin had felt at the beginning, being miserably out of practice, had been soon forgotten in the wake of Bilbo’s playfulness.

The first time Bilbo had chuckled because Thorin’s beard had tickled his stomach. The dwarf had felt a little disappointed, for he had looked forward to kissing his way up and down Bilbo’s body, and he had not pictured any hobbit laughing at him. Then he had realised that neither his prick nor Bilbo’s had felt insulted by the melekûn’s mirth. Shooting Bilbo an unimpressed look, Thorin had resumed his kissing, ignoring the guffaws of laughter coming from the melekûn until they had turned into moans.

“I intend to cure you of your ticklishness,” he had declared, earning a delighted giggle from Bilbo.

“And I of your grumpiness, Your Highness,” the melekûn had replied, his small hand pretending to smooth Thorin’s brow. “Now, would you be so kind as to get some slick? I mean to have you inside me.”

There were beads to praise lovers and declare their accomplishments in bed. Thorin felt that Bilbo might have deserved one of those; one, at least, for the charming way he had to ask for what he wanted. He had not expected to find the melekûn so vocal about his wishes, though he should have suspected it - Bilbo had always been quite loud about what pleased him and what bothered him, and there was no reason why he should have been different in bed. It made him quite petulant - almost irksome in truth - but also infinitely familiar. Besides, his inclination to order Thorin about had surprisingly excited the prince, though it had earned the melekûn’s bottom some playful slaps. Not that Bilbo had complained, and that was another road Thorin would gladly explore next time.

“Baknablâg.”

Thorin laughed at that and Bilbo bit his shoulder in retaliation.

“Asking for breakfast in Khuzdul, my fair hobbit?” Thorin asked, nuzzling Bilbo’s bare throat. Bilbo’s small fingers carded their way through the hair on his chest, brushing his nipples and making Thorin purr.

“Your _fair hobbit_?” the melekûn repeated, sounding amused though quite sleepy.

His eyes were still closed, his touch a little heavy above Thorin’s heart.

“Aren’t you a hobbit? Aren’t you fair?” Thorin replied, leaving out the _my_ part - though it reminded him that he had planned to leave some love-marks on Bilbo’s neck.

“Does my fairness entitle me to breakfast in bed?” Bilbo inquired, hissing and shuddering when he felt Thorin’s teeth scraping his throat. “Still burning from your beard,” he added to justify the way his breath hitched at the lightest touch of the dwarf’s mouth on his irritated skin, but miserably failing at sounding very displeased by the whole business.

“You hungry thing, have you no other thought?”

“I cannot concentrate as long as my stomach is empty,” Bilbo mumbled and as if to support his words, his stomach gave a rumbling sound. Thorin laughed and covered the soft mound of the melekûn’s belly with his hand; Bilbo hummed and rolled his hips, until Thorin felt something else poking his fingers.

“May I persuade you to be distracted from your breakfast?”

The melekûn gasped when Thorin’s thumb landed on the tip of his cock, spreading the moisture gathered there and tickling the slit with gentle short strokes. He cracked his eyes open and his pink tongue ran over his lips; then he blinked and forced his expression into a frown.

“Baknablâg,” he repeated, a little louder this time.

“As my fair hobbit wishes,” Thorin sighed, feeling avenged at the way Bilbo’s hips bucked when he took his hand away from his erection. “You shall have your breakfast and I shall have _you_ for breakfast,” he promised, placing a kiss upon Bilbo’s brow.

“Your innuendo may be worse than Óin’s,” the melekûn pointed out.

Thorin felt his affection glow warmer at Bilbo’s words, for they already had some private jokes between them, some references others would not catch. It spoke of intimacy and understanding to Thorin’s heart, and made it more difficult for him to leave the bed when he could just stay and use that tender, confident mood to his hobbit’s delight. Yet he guessed that Bilbo would not agree to postponing breakfast.

“Pancakes with syrup and blueberries, cinnamon buns, scones, some eggs and ham. Tea and milk, and some whipped cream while you’re at it,” Bilbo listed, little sighs punctuating each word as if he could just picture the pleasure of stuffing his mouth full of this and that. A pretty picture indeed, one that made the prince’s cock twitch in sympathy and suggested to his mind different uses for the whipped cream. “Are you still here?”

“I’m going,” Thorin huffed, though he took his time to plunge his hand into Bilbo’s hair and kiss his mouth. The melekûn whined something about morning breath, but Thorin could not care less - he tasted the sourness of Bilbo’s mouth and committed it to his memory, along with the warm scent of his skin under the covers.

The kiss broken with some reluctance, Thorin slipped out of the blankets and down the bed. His vanity might have been slightly hurt by the fact that Bilbo did not take his chance to peep at him, but he was too engrossed by the sight of the melekûn snatching his pillow and embracing it with a content sigh, breathing in the lingering warmth left by Thorin.

The dwarf only hoped to find at least one servant neither too drunk or tired to bring them breakfast - he hated the idea of going himself to the kitchens, since it would mean leaving Bilbo alone longer than he intended. He picked up the mantle he had hastily discarded the night before and draped it over a chair, then took a pair of trousers from his wardrobe and put on a simple tunic to better disguise the swell of his cock.

 

In retrospect, he should have expected it.   

Yet Frerin’s loud voice came as a shock at the time and, had Thorin been a lesser dwarf, it would have sent him scurrying back to his bedroom and to the comfort of Bilbo’s arms. Thorin being Thorin, he held his ground and turned upon Frerin the most threatening glare he could pull out when he felt so exposed, hair tangled and only half-dressed, his body aching with desire and his soul raw with affection.

“What are you doing here?” Thorin snapped, taking care to close the door to his bedroom behind him and stand between it and Frerin.

Still in his richest robes with his crown of rubies perched above his head, Frerin looked like he could do with a bath and some rest - braids undone and eyes large, he had probably not slept at all and moved from feast to feast throughout the whole night till dawn. Thorin’s quarters were likely to be his last stop before his own rooms, where he would snore away most of the day. At the same time he was not drunk enough to overlook the wariness of Thorin’s behaviour.

“Good morning to you too, Abanel,” he said, eyeing his brother from head to foot. “I see that your splendid habitual mood is back - I’m glad of it, since I’m not sure I could have stood your smile any longer,” he declared, waving his hand before taking a seat at the table. He yawned and loosened one of his braids, then he started re-doing it. “Anyway I’m here on business,” he added, grinning.

“Business? No, listen, it’s not...”

“Rest assured that it doesn’t please me in the least,” Frerin interrupted him with a shrug, while his fingers worked swiftly on the braid. “But what is fair is fair. You were right about the melekûn, so you win.”

“I swear I don’t...” Thorin started again.

“Thorin, you _did_ it!” Frerin laughed, braid forgotten in the haste of leaping to his feet and reaching Thorin. He pulled his older sibling into his arms, patting his back and shoulders. “You were right - you really managed to turn Bilbo into a dwarf. Or something like it. If it wasn’t for the lack of beard and his bare feet, I swear he could pass for one of us. The braids were the last touch, I didn’t think you would go so far but...well, that was a stroke of genius! I almost couldn’t believe my eyes and my ears, and you know very well I’ve never thought that he would be up to it, but I swear he was _perfect_. You must have instructed him very well and adad was mightily pleased with him - by my beard, the whole court was charmed by him!”

 

Despite the fact that he wanted Frerin to leave his rooms as soon as possible, Thorin could not help but be gratified by the way Bilbo had commanded the respect and admiration of his father’s courtiers, pleasing the King himself with his progress in Khuzdul and his solid knowledge of dwarf manners.

No one could ever mistake Bilbo for a dwarf - he would never resemble one and there would always be something peculiar, utterly un-dwarvish about his behaviour. Frerin was clearly exaggerating, as was customary with him. Yet it was true that the courtiers had praised Bilbo’s clothes despite his bare feet, to the point that Thorin had heard someone talking about the unmistakable _exotic_ charm of melekûnh as if it might become the newest fashion in Erebor. What was more important to Thorin, his people had seen the braids and accepted what the beads said about Bilbo and his achievements. They had treated Bilbo according to the status Thorin had conferred upon him. And some of them had had the chance to learn that the hobbit was indeed quick-witted and full of humour, and a good dancer as well.

“There’s some grandeur about him, though not of the sort we are used to,” Thráin had mused. “I didn’t think much about him the first time we met. I couldn’t ignore him after he had saved Fíli’s life, but there’s more about him than we have given him credit for. I’m no longer surprised at Tharkûn’s fondness for him - a zigrâl has a way of understanding things better and earlier than other people, and a damned habit of being right.” Thorin had meant to take his leave to dance with Bilbo at last, but he had lingered when the King had looked at him with something akin to remorse. “You’ve grown to be a good leader for your people, despite what you suffered at the hands of your grandfather - what you suffered for us all, taking upon yourself the weight of our fear and our shame, and carrying it with you all the time.” Thráin’s hand had cupped Thorin’s face, his fingers heavy on his son’s short beard. “I shouldn’t have let you become a living reminder of our darker days under my father’s rule - of King Thrór’s madness. It wasn’t fair to leave such a burden on your shoulders.”

“It wasn’t for you to choose,” Thorin had replied. “I _must_ remember.”

“We all must. You shall not be King under the Mountain alone - I shared the weight of this crown with my family, my friends, those who serve me and those _I_ serve. I ask but for loyalty and a willing heart.”

“Those were grandfather’s words.”

“He was a great King before the sickness. He should have remembered those words, but the dragon creeping into his mind devoured them, leaving him to thoughts of treachery and endless solitude,” Thráin had murmured, his gaze growing slightly unfocused. Then he had squeezed his son’s forearm. “Thorin, I’d like to see you grow to be a great King under the Mountain and know that you’ll take this crown from my cold hands with full faith in your ability to make this Kingdom thrive.”

“I’m trying, adad,” Thorin had murmured, feeling ashamed at how young he sounded.

“I know. Greatness is different for each one of us, that much I learnt while my father was threatening to have me imprisoned for treason. The dragon sickness had persuaded Thrór that he would find greatness in the wealth he was gathering in these halls. But I’m not my father, neither are you. Love gold and silver, my son, for what they can buy, but love mithril best because it can protect your heart. Make your heart cunning and kind, make it wise and brave, but patient as well. And don’t mistake your heart for a stone, no matter how beautiful.”

They had touched foreheads then, Thorin slightly bowing down to make up for their height difference. His father’s hands had trembled on his shoulders and Thorin had wished that it would be possible to prove himself to his father, and his King, there and then. Still, he could only promise to follow his advice.

“If this melekûn can teach you something about the greatness that comes from kindness, let him.”

 

The memory of Thráin’s words were the reason why Thorin’s mind suddenly recoiled at Frerin’s congratulations. _You turned him into a dwarf_ , Frerin had just said, but it did not sound right - it sounded, in fact, dreadful.

“You must be very proud of yourself, brother,” Frerin said, smiling broadly.

Bilbo’s success had been Thorin’s - he had taken pride in it, that much was true. Yet it was not only pride he had experienced at the sight of Bilbo finding his place among Khazâd. He had felt relieved, confident, and hopeful, but all those feelings withered at the sudden awareness that he had won his bet.

“I’ll keep my word and accept my duties toward the Kingdom,” Frerin was saying, rolling his eyes. “Though you must admit that you had some help from Fíli, since he taught Bilbo to dance so well. I’ll admit that I’m a little taken with the halfling myself and I would not mind another dance with him.”

Thorin stiffened at the mere thought, though he understood that his brother was taunting him as usual.

“Go Frerin, I’m not in the mood,” he muttered, starting to back away.

“But we _must_ celebrate,” Frerin replied, laughing and keeping him at arm’s length. “Come on, let me treat you to some food and drink in the kitchens. Your duties can wait for the moment being, since the whole Mountain is still asleep after last night’s celebrations. Let’s break our fast to Master Baggins’ health and to his accomplishments!”

“I would rather not.”

“What got you in such a foul mood? You seemed pleased enough at the Mahalmerag and I thought you’d be delighted at the prospect of torturing me for a whole year with any boring task you may think of. Besides, Bilbo has enjoyed himself as well - you taught him well and his vanity was surely flattered by his success last night.”

“Frerin, could you just go now? There’re things which need my attention...”

“I’m sure they can wait a little longer. Come,” Frerin insisted, taking hold of Thorin’s arm. “We may even check on Master Baggins and convince him to join us, though I recall melekûnh prefer to sleep late. But now that he’s a _honorary dwarf_ he may change some of his habits!”

“Hush, you fool,” Thorin hissed then, shrugging off Frerin’s hand and going as far as to push him away.

“What?” Frerin exclaimed, looking slightly hurt at his brother’s fury. He opened his mouth, closed it, then he caught Thorin’s wary attitude and raised his brow. “Is it what I’m thinking?” he asked, sounding awfully like Dís.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Thorin replied gruffly.

“Is Bilbo here?”

They looked at each other in silence - Thorin quivering with annoyance, Frerin apparently unimpressed by it. At last Thorin muttered a curse in Khuzdul and nodded once.  

“That’s too bad. I’ve lost to you about Bilbo’s debut at court and now I’ve lost to Dís,” Frerin sighed, rubbing his beard and taking a look at Thorin. “She guessed this, you know, damn her hunch for these things. I didn’t think that you would just get on with it, ignoring any courting customs and seducing our hobbit.”

“I didn’t seduce him,” Thorin growled, feeling vaguely disturbed by the idea.

He might not have started a proper courtship, but his intentions were...

“Well, whatever. Go on, wake him up. You and he can join me in the kitchens as soon as you’re ready,” Frerin offered, as nonchalant as could be, before taking his leave.  

Thorin felt grimly amused at his brother’s reaction. It was just like Frerin to be so casual about what he had just learnt. While Thorin’s mind was in turmoil, his brother could think of having breakfast with the melekûn and maybe teasing him about the night he had spent in the prince’s bed - not that Thorin meant to let anything of the sort happen.

Shoulders hunched as if waiting for a blow to fall, the back of his throat bitter with a sense of foreboding, Thorin opened the door to his bedroom. Though part of his mind had pictured this very scene, the sight of the empty bed hit him like a blow to his guts. He had to lean against the doorframe, one hand twisting the cloth of his tunic while he looked at the muddle of blankets and furs, then at the beads left on the pillow. That was a detail he had not imagined by himself and hurt deeper than the rest.

“No, no, no,” Thorin ground through his teeth, eventually springing away from the door. His hands ran over the sheets, taking in the warmth nestled there and the little dip of the mattress where Bilbo had been laying when he had left the room. “Fool, I’m a fool,” he repeated, his breath heavy with panic.

He tried to close his hands on the beads, but they rolled between his fingers, got lost between the folds of the blankets and the thick dark fur. He let them be, promising to himself that he would retrieve them later. _Damn_ the light pace of hobbits and damn the secondary exit from his quarters - he would have liked to think that Bilbo had just gone to the bathroom or wandered into the annexed rooms for his pleasure, but he was not so naive. So he found his boots and put them on, but he did not bother with anything else. It would be cold in his trousers and tunic, and dwarves would find it quite odd to see the prince in such a simple attire at that time in the morning, but he could not bring himself to care. His mind was full of Bilbo.

He was clear-headed enough to know that the melekûn would not go back to his rooms - the first place where he would be sought. Neither would he go to Dís or anyone else of Thorin’s family. He might go to Gandalf though and that would have been Thorin’s first stop if he had not had an inkling of the fact that Bilbo - his kind, warm-hearted, understanding Bilbo - would rather be alone than show his pain. The awareness of being the cause of that pain cut almost as much as the realisation that he knew Bilbo well enough to anticipate his actions and that such an intimacy might have been breaking at that very moment.

He left the royal quarters, covering corridors and stairs in long strides. He did not know how much of a head-start Bilbo had on him, but he hoped that his knowledge of Erebor would make up for it. So he chose the quickest ways down the Mountain, secret passages he used when he did not want to be bothered or slowed down by inopportune meetings. And he headed to the hall where the King had entertained his court and guests for the Mahalmerag feast after the public rites in the great halls opened to all Khazâd.

Melekûnh had no interest in history, but Bilbo was no ordinary melekûn. He cherished his memories, he would muse over them seeking some meaning, some lesson in the past; he was not so different from Thorin in that regard. And he was sentimental - again, like Thorin was.

At first, the prince thought that he had been wrong. Servants were cleaning the hall of the remnants of the banquet. Some drunk dwarves had been left behind - he spotted one snoring under the table, another trying to lace his boots in a corner. And no melekûn in sight. A servant recognised him and bowed low at his passage, but Thorin dismissed him immediately, eyes sweeping the place looking for Bilbo. At last he found him, half-hidden in the shadow of a pillar, forty paces far.

It took all Thorin’s self-control not to break into a run.

He was relieved to notice, as he slowly made his way to Bilbo, that he had at least draped a mantle lined with fur over his shoulders to protect himself from the cold. Beneath he guessed that Bilbo had not bothered with more than his breeches and the velvet blue tunic he had worn for the feast. He looked smaller beside the huge pillar and Thorin would have given his own blood to be allowed to take him in his arms. Yet he knew that it had never been about spilling his blood to prove his courage or offering gold and jewels to prove his ability to provide for Bilbo; it had always been about who he was and who he was willing to become - and about his ability to love. The idea of how widely he had failed in that regard almost stopped him from making his presence known to the melekûn.

“Do not follow me,” Bilbo said, when Thorin was closer.

He had heard his approach. The tiredness in his voice scared Thorin more than the furious side-look Bilbo threw at him. He remembered another time like this one, Bilbo shooing him away after that unfortunate dinner at Bag End. He had been wrong then and it was bitter to think that so much time had passed, so many things had happened between them, and still he was at fault.

“I’m not following you. Just willing to put some distance between me and Balin,” Thorin replied.

Bilbo’s head turned sharply and for a moment it seemed as if the melekûn did not remember. Then there was a flash of recognition and pain blooming in the depth of Bilbo’s sunken eyes. The smile he gave then, at the memory of their first acquaintance, cut like a knife into Thorin’s composure. He made to move toward the hobbit, but Bilbo raised his hand, pinning him in place with that simple gesture.

“No. How could you?”

 _You’re going to regret it_ , Hepti had said when he had first heard of the bet.

“I regret it,” Thorin said, lowering his gaze.

“It’s not enough. I _trusted_ you. I was grateful for your help with Khuzdul and honoured by your attention, you made me feel welcome and...appreciated. What’s wrong with you? You, your brother, your sister - all amusing yourselves with _me_.” It seemed that words had become difficult for Bilbo and that he had to drag them out of his chest, one by one. That, more than the gaunt look he had acquired in such an incredibly short period of time, gave Thorin an idea of the sorrow upon his mind - he had never known Bilbo to lack words before. “It was a joke. All this, a joke and a bet,” the melekûn murmured, shaking his head.

“I swear it wasn’t. It isn’t,” Thorin replied, curtness calling curtness.

He knew that he had to say more and try to explain what he had done, but he felt as if his own words were stuck in his throat. He could only watch Bilbo, hoping that he would spot a little chink in the shell of Bilbo’s pain - that he would be let in and allowed to make amends. It was not made any easier by the fact that they were standing on the same ground where they had been dancing last night - _I’m happy_ , Thorin had confessed then and he had meant it. Now Bilbo’s unhappiness grew like a shadow over the memory-filled hall.  

“How could you?” the melekûn repeated. “Calling me _fair_.”

It sounded like an insult, that delicate, translucent word Thorin had chosen for his lover as he would have chosen a pearl among the treasures in Erebor. Others would have invented more elaborate praises for Bilbo, others would have celebrated all that was beautiful and unparalleled about him; Thorin was not eloquent in love, so he had chosen that small word from a language that was not his own and poured his heart into it.

“Calling me fair because you turned me into a dwarf,” Bilbo continued, spitting one word after another and taking a step toward Thorin. The dwarf shuddered when he realised that he had just taken a step back, retreating before Bilbo’s advance. “You manipulated me into this. Giving me beads and furs, teaching me to dance your dances and speak your language, instructing me on how low I must bow before you _Naugrim_.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed at the insult in Sindarin. He had not expected it from Bilbo and it hurt his pride, but he accepted the slur more easily than he could accept the picture painted by the melekûn’s words.

“I called you _fair_ because you’re that in my eyes,” he said, feeling as helpless and young as if he had just discovered his heart - a raw, inept thing, its beat lumbering down Thorin’s limbs, through his head, spilling out of his mouth.

“Training me into the manners of dwarves as if it was the greatest honour you might bestow upon me - while you did it to win your bet. What did the bet include? Making me look like a fool, attired like a dwarf, speaking like a dwarf,” Bilbo listed, almost breathlessly, “thinking that if I could _feel_ like a dwarf at least for a moment I would know how _you_ feel and figure out what would please you.”

“ _You_ please me,” Thorin growled.

He saw Bilbo’s cheeks glow red as if he had just slapped him.

 _You’re only interested in being liked_ , Thorin had declared at the beginning. And now the mere idea that Thorin liked him made Bilbo flinch - _I have brought this upon myself_ , he knew that much.

“Did the bet include taking me to your bed?” the melekûn asked, his voice so even that it sounded on the verge of breaking.

It was the prince’s turn to blush. He became suddenly aware of the fact that they were talking in public, exposed to the lazy glances of the servants and the well-trained ears of the few courtiers still around. The hall, which had looked so empty a few moments before, now appeared too-crowded for the sort of conversation they were having. Thorin’s shame grew another layer, caught as he was in the horror of making a scene which would be probably became Erebor’s newest scandal - the heir quarrelling with the melekûn upon their dalliance!

Thorin acted out of selfishness and generosity at the same time - he meant to spare himself the revolting possibility of being the object of gossip, but he also wished to protect Bilbo from any slander. So, forcing his voice to a lower, reasonable tone, he reached for the melekûn.

“Bilbo,” he began, his mind struggling to come up with the sort of words which could persuade a furious hobbit to follow him back to his quarters or any other private place Bilbo might prefer - the spell of words which would give Thorin time to explain and apologise.

He felt the melekûn’s wrist with his finger, the little bones and the soft flesh yielding to his touch. He saw Bilbo turn his head to the other side, hiding his face exactly when Thorin wanted more than anything to see what was written over it - some fondness to give him hope or even rage that he could bear and pain that he could soothe, anything but blank indifference. Then he felt the full force of Bilbo’s palm and fingers when he slapped him hard across his face.

It shocked him like plunging into cold water. Breath sucked out of his lungs, the sting of the slap echoing through his ears, Thorin stood there. He could have yelled for the sheer pain of having his pride ripped apart - he had been hit and wounded, punched and beaten in the past, but the only slap he remembered was Thrór’s. His grandfather had slapped him like this, hitting his cheek and his nose, back and forth, the gems in his rings cutting Thorin’s mouth. Just before unsheathing his dagger and cutting Thorin’s beard.

“I curse you. May the dragon feast on your heart. May you be unhappy.”

And other curses Thorin would not translate from the language of his forefathers.  

For a long moment Thorin was back to the day Smaug had come, the cold of the blade slicing through his beard and grazing his throat. But Bilbo’s eyes upon him were not Thrór’s. There was no madness into them, no unrelenting hate; Bilbo looked stunned at his own action, surprise overcoming his anger.

Then, with a miserable gasp, the melekûn turned on his heels and fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  _Khi muneb guruth biratazriri aktâb ma nekha urasgânu azbâh_ : One should be eager to acquire knowledge; it does not come through inheritance  
>  _Azafr sagshari sabhari_ : As you teach, you learn  
>  _Baknablâg_ : breakfast


	17. A Hymn to Me

 “Why didn’t you run after him?” Thorin frowned and shot his sister an inquiring glance. “Oh, I have my sources, you know,” Dís admitted, waving her hand and passing him the small pouch to put on his bruise - Thorin had refused to call Óin, so she had ordered a servant to bring some ice. “Though I guessed the slap from the mark of his hand on your face. Who would have thought that such a little thing would hit you so hard,” she commented lazily.

Thorin did not answer. He pressed the pouch to his reddened cheek and hissed through his teeth at the sudden coldness. At the corner of his eye he saw Dís roll her eyes, but she spared him any sarcasm about his fussiness. At least she had agreed not to call Óin, whose innuendo might have just tipped Thorin over his limit.

Dís had come uninvited, taken one sharp look at him, and then ordered him to sit down by the fire and stop pacing back and forth like a bear in a cage. Along with the ice the servant had brought some food for Thorin and some warm milk with honey for Dís, and she had forced him to eat something even while he kept swearing that he did not need to be treated like a dwarfling and that he would not tolerate any meddling.

“Now that you’re calmer,” Dís began, “would you care to explain why you didn’t follow him?”

Thorin shrugged. _Why?_ The fact that Bilbo had slapped him in public might have been a good reason for letting him go at his pleasure. The point, though, was that he had been paralysed and unable to run after him. Like he had done with his grandfather, he had given up at one point. Another attempt might have been successful - Bilbo might have listened to him and there had been no dragon in sight, yet Thorin had just stood petrified, watching the melekûn slip through his fingers.

If Dís guessed something of what was going on in his mind, she did not show it. She finished her milk, got up from her seat and then sat down on the armrest of Thorin’s armchair.

“Come, let me redo your braids,” she offered, her hand resting on the top of her brother’s head.

Thorin felt a little closer to tears, especially since he knew that turning his head to let her work with his braids would allow him to hide his face and look at the fire rather than hold her gaze. They both knew it and gratitude made Thorin’s heart heavier.

Dís started to card her fingers through his hair, separating strands and untying knots. She worked quietly, nimbly, without the help of a comb. Thorin slightly relaxed under her touch, eyes trained on the flames. Then, just as he was close to shutting his eyes and slipping into a merciful slumber, the hurt he had seen in Bilbo’s eyes suddenly flashed beneath his eyelids.

“Have you seen him?” Thorin asked, straightening his head.

“No. Should I have tried to see him?”

“No. He knows that both you and Frerin were involved in the bet. Though he hates me more.”

“He doesn’t hate you. Well, a little maybe. He might want to hit you again, but he...”

“Don’t. I - _we_ don’t have any right to make any assumption about what he feels,” Thorin grunted.

Dís sighed and she started braiding the hair on the left side of Thorin’s head. For a while she worked in silence while her brother brooded over his mistakes, but when she put one of his beads back in place she could no longer resist.

“Thorin, listen - we’ve all seen the beads. Bilbo may not have guessed their meaning but...”

“I explained it to him while I braided his hair,” the prince pointed out, gruffly. Dís hummed, apparently not quite convinced, and Thorin felt compelled to admit the whole truth. “I may have not made clear the meaning of _all_ the beads. Or of the mithril shirt.”

“Oh Thorin,” Dís sighed, starting with another braid. “How can you be the one with grey hair and still act like a dwarfling in these matters? I told you to speak with him _before_ the feast.”

“There wasn’t any time,” Thorin protested, his shoulders stiffening. Dís patted his back to invite him to straighten his head. “I thought that we would talk later, I _promised_ him that. I didn’t mean to keep the bet a secret, I wouldn’t have deceived him any longer...do you believe me about this, Dís?”

“I do.”

 _Will Bilbo though?_ Thorin mused, taking his head in his hands. Dís kept working on his braids.

“I hoped that you’d talk with him sooner rather than later. I knew what you meant to do at the feast, it was no secret to me - or to anyone who knows how Khazâd act in these matters.” Thorin blushed at her words, but he could not deny them. “Yet, I feared that this might happen. Frerin was a fool to come to your rooms to speak of it, but...oh Thorin, how can you have waited so long? Didn’t you see that you were putting everything at stake keeping this secret? He would have been furious with you at first, but he would have forgiven you and us all.”

“So you think he won’t now,” Thorin stated coldly.

“I haven’t said that,” she said cautiously. “It would have been easier if you had talked with him first, taken your time to explain. Discovering it like that...”

“It’s done,” Thorin interrupted her, his fists in his lap. “Your advice should have come sooner, when I accepted this accursed bet.”

Dís’s hand tightened in his hair for a moment and Thorin thought that she, too, would leave him to his own faults. But after a moment she resumed her quiet working.

“When you came back from the Shire I wanted to know more about your time there. I liked how you talked about the melekûn, but I thought that nothing more would come of it.” Thorin said nothing, though he remembered having thought the same. “Then he came here and I thought he was... _trouble_. I had never seen you so...enticed by someone before - you may think that you were very discreet with your stolen glances and your disparaging words, but I’m your sister and I know how your heart works. He’s so different from us, so different from you. I was worried about who you would become if he stayed around and I was jealous because he could do that to you - Mahal, I couldn’t bear it!” she sighed, leaning down until her cheek rested on the top of Thorin’s head. “That’s why I did it. I encouraged you to accept Frerin’s bet because I hoped he would disappoint you.”

“Will you apologise now?” Thorin asked through his teeth, though he felt more betrayed and distracted by the fact that Dís had understood something of his feelings since the beginning and she had said nothing, other than by the part she had played in the bet.

“To both of you,” she agreed. “Hepti wouldn’t speak to me for years if I didn’t.” She straightened her back and began separating some strands of hair. “I still think that he’s trouble anyway, but you like him.”

“Well, that doesn’t matter, does it? I should have never listened to Frerin. I should not have listened to _you_. Your husband is right Dís - we’re arrogant and ruthless, and Mahal have mercy on those who show us any kindness.”

“Stop hiding behind your family, Thorin!” she scolded him. “It’s not in your blood. You’re not cursed, you’re not bound to be unkind. It’s your choice and your responsibility, though you’d like to think otherwise. _You_ accepted to bet on the melekûn’s debut at court. Why did you do it?”

“I wanted to see him accepted among us.”

“Did you want us to _like_ him?” Dís asked, astonished. “Thorin, we didn’t start to like him because he could learn our customs. It’s not...the point of him, you know this - don’t you?” Thorin’s grunt probably seemed a good answer to that, so she continued. “I thought that you just wanted to have an excuse to spend some time with him.” Thorin ducked his head a little at that, feeling his ears burn in mortification at hearing another part of the truth. Dís laughed quietly and caressed his cheek. “I do like him, nadad. I know we all faulted him at first - you know how it annoys me to say it, but Hepti was right and we were wrong. Thorin, can we fix this?” she asked, suddenly sounding quite young and uncertain. “I’ll go to Bilbo if you let me, and I will apologise.”

“No, I must go first. Please can you...keep Frerin out of my way?”

“He didn’t do it on purpose,” Dís pointed out.

“I know, but I cannot talk to him right now, neither to adad.”

“All right, I’ll keep them at bay and prevent them from bothering Master Baggins before you’ve had your chance to speak with him.” Thorin nodded and Dís put the last of his beads in place. “There, now you no longer look like a wildling. And put something around your neck, unless you mean to show the marks to the guards and the servants.”

Thorin shuddered, his hand instinctively moving to his neck to cover the little bruises from Bilbo’s nips. Dís said nothing, but she touched his forehead with hers before leaving him alone.

“Speak with him as soon as possible, brother. I fear a gush of wind may sweep him away to the road if you don’t,” she warned him from the threshold.

When she was gone Thorin snorted. He knew perfectly well that the timing had worked against him and that it would be better to clear the situation sooner rather than later. He could not let Bilbo think that his only interest had been in winning the bet - the last weeks had meant so much more to Thorin that he had ever let on or even admitted to himself, and the thought that Bilbo might belittle them in his mind was hideous.

So he stood up, washed his face with cold water, and left his rooms. He had not dared hope that Bilbo would open his door, yet having his knocks unanswered sharpened Thorin’s anguish. He tried calling the melekûn’s name, tentative at first and then a little louder. No answer came. He was not even sure that Bilbo had come back to his quarters rather than going to Gandalf’s rooms or to his friends the toymakers. And he would not have known, if Bilbo had not said, at last:

“Go away.”

The sound of the melekûn’s voice thrilled him, despite the fact that it was shooing him away. At least Bilbo had not left Erebor or hidden Mahal knew where. It comforted Thorin to know that Bilbo was on the other side of the door and knew that he, Thorin, wished to talk. Not that this seemed to impress the melekûn enough to invite him in. Though he knew he should not have forced himself into Bilbo’s rooms, Thorin could not keep himself from trying to open the door. When the door did not budge, Thorin felt his cheeks ablaze with shame and frustration - Bilbo had guessed that he would try to enter uninvited and had taken care of locking the sturdy door.

“Bilbo, please,” he muttered, his fingers stroking the door frame as if he could coax the door to open.

He could try to talk to Bilbo through the door, even if the melekûn did not want him in his chambers, but he thought it impractical and meaningless - he did not care to talk to a closed door. In fact he wished to look at Bilbo while he talked and find his words in the sight of Bilbo’s expressive, lively soft face. He longed to reach for Bilbo’s tousled brown hair, and braid it again with his beads (fine, it might be too soon for that, but how he wanted it!). In other words he wanted to talk _with_ Bilbo, not _to_ Bilbo, being listened to and slapped if Bilbo saw fit, then hear all about Bilbo’s anger and his accusations.

He could not do it otherwise, he would not throw his words at mute wood and cold iron.

“I will wait here,” he declared stubbornly, before sitting down with his back to the wall.

It did not feel right either, waiting rather than acting; yet he had to give Bilbo the chance of choosing _when_ he would feel like talking to him - Thorin did not mean to dwell on the possibility that it might be a matter of _if_.

To distract himself from the urge to pry the damned door open, Thorin let his thoughts wander to the previous night, when he had been so drunk on Bilbo’s affection he had disregarded how urgent it was to tell him the whole truth - both about the bet and his feelings. He should not have given Bilbo any reason to doubt them and question the meaning of the night they had spent in Thorin’s bed.

“Tell me about the _Usrunu’okhbib_ ,” Bilbo had requested, squirming a little under the touch of the damp towel Thorin was using to wipe away the traces of semen and sweat from his lover’s body.

Thorin had raised his brows, then leant down to mouth at the soft mound of Bilbo’s belly.

“I haven’t,” a small lick into Bilbo’s navel, “tired you out,” a kiss to his spent prick, “enough,” a bite to his thigh, pink from Thorin’s beard. “Were you thinking about the ballad while I was here?” Thorin had asked, his thumb dipping down the cleft of Bilbo’s bottom.

“You’re scandalous,” Bilbo had replied, hiding his face behind his hands - but he had also leant into Thorin’s caress.

“You are the one being scandalous, Master Baggins. Asking me of a ballad when I expected but moans and whines - I fear I can’t have enough of those.” Bilbo had blushed a delectable shade of pink and Thorin, towel discarded, had taken him in his arms, tracing paths over the bare skin of Bilbo’s back with his fingers. “Come, what do you want to know about the _Usrunu’okhbib_?”

“I couldn’t catch every word, though it was sung over and over, while you played it on your harp but didn’t sing. How would it sound if you were the one singing it?” the melekûn wondered, looking pointedly at the dwarf’s mouth.

“At the moment quite hoarse and breathless,” Thorin had replied, stealing a brief kiss from Bilbo’s lips.

“It’s supposed to be about the art of forging, but I didn’t catch many words about that. Actually I thought I heard _Kaminzabdûna_ , Yavanna’s name among Khazâd. How does it fit though?”

“Don’t you know that Yavanna is Aulë Mahal’s spouse?” Thorin had asked, vaguely amused at Bilbo’s apparent ignorance about such a well-known fact. “Is she considered a maiden among your people?”

“She...well, some tales say that Mahal saw her in the fields and he abandoned the work in his forges to watch her dance bare-foot among the tall grass and the wild flowers.”

“And then he snatched her away to his forges.”

“ _What?_ Oh no, you’ve got it completely wrong,” Bilbo had shaken his head, slightly scandalised. “There was no kidnapping involved. In fact _she_ was the one who snatched him out of his forges and made him forget fire and iron for some time, teaching him the beauty of the living world under the sun.”

“I’m sure there’re some graphical descriptions of _how_ Mahal convinced her to follow him”

“I say that she didn’t follow him anywhere.”

“But you agree that she’s his spouse.”

“And he’s hers,” Bilbo had pointed out. “She’s still the fair Yavanna of our fields, hills, and brooks, though she’s in love with Aulë. You know, sometimes in the heat of Summer some crop catches fire - a forgotten pipe most of the time, but we use to say that Aulë had joined his spouse in that field and that in his haste to reach her he forgot to smother the flames in his clothes and hair.”

“So the crop was burnt by Mahal’s passion,” Thorin had commented, smiling. “You say that she walks bare-foot...I suppose she’s plump and soft,” he had continued, his hands gently kneading Bilbo’s tender waist, “and she dresses in bright colours, never forgetting her embroidered handkerchiefs.” At that Bilbo had pinched his stomach and Thorin had laughed. “And she must have a sharp tongue and nimble fingers to keep her husband’s temper in check.”

“He must be very beautiful indeed to make up for his stubborn head and terrible manners.”

“He made Khazâd to his image.”

“So he’s a brawny hairy god? Covered in soot and blisters most of the time? With thick skin and a thicker head?”

“You don’t know what the saucy ballads say of his amatory prowess,” Thorin had grinned.

“I’m sure you have a wide range of jokes involving hammers and anvils,” Bilbo had deadpanned. “And most of them probably include the words _hard_.”

“I planned to charm you with those sort of allusions - do you mean to suggest that you wouldn’t appreciate knowing that you have me so...” Thorin had stopped because Bilbo had closed his hand over his mouth. He had chuckled against the melekûn’s palm and laughed even harder at Bilbo’s glaring.

“Hush you oaf, unless you want to send me back to my rooms immediately,” he had threatened. “A good deal of patience, that’s what it took to Yavanna to bear her husband - no kidnapping could have persuaded her not to break his head with a frying pan.”

“Isn’t she peaceful and kind-hearted like her beloved melekûnh?"

“Even a game of conkers can be very dangerous, Your Highness,” Bilbo had said, a little haughtily. “Pray that you never learn my true skill at it.”

For no reason at all, Thorin had suddenly felt a pull to his heart and he had cradled Bilbo’s face in his hands, their foreheads pressed together.

“The _Usrunu’okhbib_ tells the tale of the courtship between Mahal and Kaminzabdûna, describing the splendid gifts he created in his forges to express his love and faithfulness,” he had explained at last. “In truth, I didn’t understand how Aulë Mahal could fall in love with Yavanna. I know how the story goes and how she gives him what he cannot create with his hands - he who created the Seven Fathers and gave them life twice, the first time out of his craft, the second time because his love for his children was so deep and strong that Eru Ilúvatar could fill them with a spirit of their own. Still, this greatest Maker of all things ingenious and beautiful, this god who knows the depths where the never-tarnished mithril blooms, this tamer of fire and darkness, chooses Yavanna, who’s everything he is not and more. I didn’t understand before.”

Bilbo had said nothing. He had kissed Thorin on the mouth, so softly and cautiously that Thorin’s heart had cried _take me, take me_ through his ribs. They had kissed until their eyelids had grown heavy and Bilbo had pulled the fur over them both.

“Prince Thorin.”

Gandalf was looking at him, managing to appear both annoyed and moved to pity at the sight. He was accompanied by a servant who carried a large tray. Thorin scrambled to his feet, childishly refusing to hold the zigrâl’s gaze while he brushed his hands over his clothes.

“It’s lunch time,” Gandalf pointed out. “Go eat something, son of Thráin.”

“I’m not leaving,” Thorin replied, his temper easily prickled by Gandalf’s commanding tone.

“Haven’t you quite finished keeping my friend Bilbo Baggins trapped in his rooms?” the zigrâl asked.

“The lock is on _his_ side of the door,” Thorin hissed, his hand falling heavily on the door as if he could prove that it would not open at his wish, “he’s not a prisoner.”

“Yet he won’t open the door knowing that you’re out here. And this is preventing me from bringing him some food.”

Thorin paled and stepped aside, his hand flinching away from the door. He stole a glance at Gandalf, to find him quite absorbed in the sight of the closed door.

“Will you...” Thorin started.

“I won’t intercede for you.”

“I didn’t mean to ask it,” the prince growled, closing his hands into fists.

“What do you want then?” Gandalf asked, kinder this time.

 _Bilbo’s forgiveness. And more. Mahal, I want so much more_.

“Just make him eat something.”

“Hardly a problem with hobbits.”

Thorin shrugged under the zigrâl’s all-knowing smug expression. Then he left, feeling hardly better than a dog driven away from his master’s threshold - in other words, miserable and undeserving. He repaired to his quarters, wasting away the hours over boring reports and thoughts of Bilbo trickling through the folds of his mind, disheartening him and lifting his spirit.

 _How unbecoming of a prince_ , Thorin thought grimly. He was not supposed to feel so purposeless when there was an entire Kingdom he was meant to serve; he should have not felt so worthless when he had proved his valour and his skills over the years; it was preposterous that he should feel so lonely when he had lived through most of his life without this Bilbo Baggins. Yet he knew that it would be impossible for him to go on as he had done before - for better or worse, Bilbo had claimed him and such a claim would not be denied without great pain.

Though he knew - and largely appreciated - how to be on his own, he no longer wished it. Loneliness, which had never frightened him before, was now made intolerable because it meant being without Bilbo.

By nightfall, he had had enough of waiting.

 

*

 

“I think that Kíli likes it,” Fíli mused, jogging along with the book firmly tucked under his arm. “I mean, he laughs a lot when I read it to him...not always on the good points, because he doesn’t know when he should be worried for the orcs - am I right, nadad-amad?”

“I’m sure that you’ll teach your brother all about orcs,” Thorin replied patiently, patting Fíli’s head with one hand while he held Kíli to his chest with his other arm.

“Oh yes, I’ve a lot of stories Dwalin told me about the orc raids! I could write them down for Kíli...do you think that Bilbo would help me? He can write the scariest, most amazing things!” Fíli exclaimed, eyes large with enthusiasm - he was practically bouncing up and down in delight at the thought of the stories to come. “Yesterday grandfather asked me to read him Bilbo’s story and he said that he’s a really good writer and I can make him an offer to become my historian. He also said that you should make Bilbo your...”

“Fíli, you may not want to say anything about it to Master Baggins,” Thorin interrupted his nephew.

“But can I ask him about the stories for Kíli?” the dwarfling inquired, frowning.

“Yes, that you can,” his uncle conceded with a sigh.

“He will be very happy about it!” Fíli decided, running ahead while Kíli gurgled and stretched his little hands as if he feared losing sight of his brother. Thorin held him a little tighter, murmuring some soothing words in Khuzdul. “Amad says that Bilbo doesn’t feel very well. That’s why he didn’t have lunch with us today. Did he eat anything bad at the feast?”

“I don’t think so, Fíli.”

“A cold then? He often says that it’s very cold here and that there’s not so much snow in the Shire. Do you think we could visit the Shire in Spring or Summer, uncle? Bilbo told me that there’re a lot of parties during the Summer and that he could teach me how to dance like a melekûn.”

“I don’t know if it will be possible,” Thorin replied, loath to make any promise in Bilbo’s place.

Fortunately he did not have to avoid any further questions, because they had reached the door to Bilbo’s quarters and Fíli immediately knocked and announced himself. For a long moment Thorin thought that it would not work and the door would stay closed, but there was some shuffling from inside, then the sound of a latch removed. The door opened and Thorin closed his eyes for a brief moment.

When he reopened them, Bilbo was on the threshold, in brown breeches and a simple tunic too large for him. He looked down at Fíli, probably a little overwhelmed by the dwarfling’s prattle about stories and orcs and the marvels of Kíli’s progress in life.

Then the melekûn raised his eyes to Thorin. The words in his mouth dried up at the mute reproach in Bilbo’s glance, so he lowered his gaze and pressed his cheek to the top of Kíli’s head, rocking him slightly.

“Come, we’ll have tea,” Thorin heard Bilbo say at last.

He had no idea what Fíli had said to convince the melekûn to let them in, but he could not help mussing his nephew’s hair while they crossed the threshold. Fíli, unaware of his uncle’s reason for being so affectionate, shot him a curious glance and touched his braids to make sure that they were still in perfect order. Then he took his usual seat on the rug by the fireplace and obviously expected his uncle and the melekûn to join him as soon as Bilbo brought the tea he had promised his guests. Thorin put Kíli down in the armchair, taking care that the dwarfling would not roll down before daring to look at Bilbo.

In the little corner furnished as a kitchen, the melekûn was busying himself with kettle and teapot, opening drawers and rummaging through them. It seemed noisier than usual, this business of preparing tea, and Thorin soon felt too impatient to sit down with his nephews.

“Fíli, look after your brother,” he murmured, before marching straight to Bilbo. He fought off the temptation to close his arms around him and press his nose among his curls, and simply leant against the cupboard. “May I help you?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible and failing - his words sounded grave and meaningful, a prayer rather than an offer.

Bilbo’s hold on the spoon with which he was measuring the blend became a little too strong. Thorin wondered if Bilbo was going to yell at him or at least hiss a couple of hobbit insults (that at least would be an interesting first), but the melekûn turned his head and pointedly fixed his gaze on the dwarflings before the fireplace.

“Thank you very much, but please go sit with your nephews. Tea will be ready in a moment.”

Thorin stiffened at Bilbo’s formal courtesy. Nothing could have thrown him off balance more than that and Bilbo, quite obviously, knew it. With his shoulders hunched and what Dís would have called _one of your prize-winning frowns_ , Thorin retreated. He took Kíli back in his arms and sat down on the armchair, fuming.

As he had assured him, it did not take long for Bilbo to return with teapot, cups, and a plate of oven-warm blueberry muffins. They were brown and gold, speckled with blue and purple. Fíli’s eyes lit up at the sight while Thorin’s stomach grumbled in sympathy - after all he had eaten sparsely and the muffins did look delicious, like most of Bilbo’s cooking. _I would put on weight_ he thought, looking at Bilbo’s small hands on the tray and the traces of flour all over his fingers. He took the tray from the melekûn, trying not to focus on how irritated Bilbo’s _thanks_ sounded. He did not insist on pouring tea though, since he knew Bilbo was quite convinced that his clumsy dwarf fingers would bring some catastrophe over his small table - how Thorin had teased his lover about this!

“Are my fingers so inept, my sweetling?” he had purred when he had put them to good use. Bilbo’s indignant groan had been most gratifying, almost as much as the way he had felt around his fingers.

The rattling of the cup on the saucer brought Thorin back to the present - where he had not earned any right to calling Bilbo _sweetling_ nor _his_. For being rather disinclined to endearments, Thorin was having a difficult time swallowing them down when they came so easily to his tongue every time his eyes fell on the melekûn. Bilbo did not seem paler or thinner than usual - in fact he looked very prim and neat despite the simplicity of his garments. His hair was as unruly as ever, he smelled of soap and flour, and his voice had lost nothing of its expressiveness.     

“It’s quite unfortunate that you came by...I would have eaten them all on my own,” Bilbo muttered, pretending to be most upset when Fíli took two muffins, one for each hand.

Thorin’s heart skipped a beat at the idle teasing. It seemed to come so natural to Bilbo and it might have easily deceived him about the melekûn’s state of mind. Yet, when his eyes sought Bilbo’s and his lips stirred in a tentative smile, the mask vanished for a moment. What Thorin saw through Bilbo’s merriment shattered any delusion he might have nurtured and left him nauseous with remorse.

An instant later the melekûn was munching his muffin and listening to Fíli’s requests, nodding and smiling at all the right points. It pained Thorin, this pretension, yet he was Bilbo’s accomplice in it, since he had been the one to bring his nephews to the melekûn’s door.

He shifted Kíli in his arms, making sure that the little one was comfortable enough. Bilbo had warmed some milk for him, so Thorin could crumble one of the muffins and sop the little pieces in the cup of milk before feeding them to Kíli. The dwarfling seemed delighted, though he was so engrossed by Bilbo - still a novelty in Kíli’s eyes - that Thorin had to nudge his rosy cheek to have his attention and remind him to chew. He slightly envied Kíli, who could freely show his fascination for Bilbo without making a fool of himself nor facing any rejection - _but Kíli wasn’t such a complete nincompoop_ a suave voice (Bilbo’s) suggested in Thorin’s head. 

“Bilbo, how are you?” Fíli asked all of sudden - or so it seemed to Thorin, whose thoughts were too muddled to properly follow the conversation. He saw a faint blush rise to Bilbo’s cheeks.

“A little tired,” he murmured, looking down at the cup in his hands. He seemed lost for a moment, then he raised his head and managed to smile. “Not too tired to tell you a story though,” he pointed out.

 

And so he did.

It was the simplest story Thorin could imagine: a hobbit leaving his books and his garden to go on an adventure. _I know how it ends_ , he would have liked to say, but Fíli preceded him and pointed out that the melekûn in the story reminded him of Bilbo.

“It’s not me, that’s for sure,” Bilbo tutted. “First, I travelled with Gandalf. On the contrary this hobbit travelled with one wizard and...” a little pause for suspense “...thirteen dwarves.”

“Why thirteen?” Fíli inquired.

“Their leader could not convince more than twelve dwarves to became his companions for the quest.”

“I’d have joined his company - isn’t he the same dwarf of your other story, Bilbo?”

“He may be. A little older perhaps,” he admitted. “Still strong and stubborn though, and leading his companions into a very strange adventure to...”

“...to fight a dragon,” Thorin supplied without thinking. Bilbo blinked, then nodded warily.

“Yes, obviously. To fight a dragon and reclaim a kingdom.”

“And the treasure? What about the _treasure_?” Fíli wanted to know.

“There must be a treasure, dragons are known to hoard gold and gems,” Bilbo conceded. “So, they’re marching toward the dragon and its treasure, but there’re many dangers on the road and they might get lost. Actually their leader _did_ get lost in Hobbiton while they were looking for the hobbit’s hole.”

“Why did they look for a hobbit? Did they think that he would kill the dragon?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start with that, I’d try riddles first,” Bilbo chuckled. “No, it was the wizard who convinced their leader that they needed a hobbit, because...”     

“...because he was a burglar and they wanted to steal back their treasure from the dragon,” Thorin said, without looking at Bilbo’s face. He looked, instead, at the melekûn’s hands - _hands of a burglar_ , he had called them once.

“He wasn’t a burglar,” Bilbo protested.

For the first time since they had entered his rooms, the melekûn looked rightly riled up. Thorin felt a queer satisfaction at cracking Bilbo’s self-imposed calmness, so he had no intention of turning down the slight challenge in Bilbo’s tone.

“Actually he looked more like a grocer,” he hummed, studying the melekûn’s expression.

“Was he a grocer?” Fíli asked, sighing as if he had guessed that whatever was going on was something between adults - therefore borderline idiotic.

“No,” Thorin and Bilbo replied in unison. Thorin did his best to hide his amusement and focused on cleaning Kíli’s mouth with a napkin, while Bilbo huffed and continued alone. “He wasn’t a grocer nor a burglar, but it was what the wizard said to the dwarf leader to convince him to take the hobbit on their adventure - _if I say that he’s a burglar, a burglar he is, or he will be when the time comes!_ ” Bilbo boomed, in such a spot-on impression of Tharkûn that both Fíli and Thorin laughed heartily, while Kíli clapped his hands and gave a little howl of his own to add to the general hilarity. “Wizards speak like that sometimes,” Bilbo concluded with a twinkle in his eyes.

“He also said, since wizards love foretelling speeches as much as being right, _there’s a lot more to him than you guess, and a deal more than he has any idea about himself_.” Watching the colour rise to Bilbo’s cheeks made Thorin feel vaguely giddy, as if he had taken a long sip of wine and it had gone straight to his head. “That’s how the company took to calling the hobbit _Master Burglar_.”

The detail, though it did not keep Bilbo from blushing, made him stifle a laugh.

“I’m not sure he liked it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But it stuck. So, our Master Burglar, the cunning wizard, and their thirteen dwarf companions left the Shire in good shape and better mood, thanks to all the food they had raided from the poor hobbit’s pantry...though the hobbit had to sign a contract first.”

“A contract?” Fíli asked, eyes round with surprise. Even Thorin could not help raising his brow.

“A contract,” Bilbo nodded, “for dwarves can be a little pompous and they did not really trust their burglar - _he’ll run back home at the first danger_ they all thought. And you must know that Master Burglar would have agreed with them, especially when he discovered that he had forgotten his handkerchief. Most uncomfortable things, these adventures...our hobbit missed his cosy armchair by the fireplace, his books and his maps - he had quite a collection of them - as well as his small garden. And the worst thing was that the dwarves did not think much of him and what he had left behind to follow them.”

“At first,” Thorin intervened, “because they didn’t know him and they were suspicious, not being used to hobbits. So they treated him badly and they would have been a very poor lot, if they hadn’t been able to understand that in truth he was...”

“A good companion for their adventure,” Bilbo preceded him, apparently alarmed at the idea that Thorin could make any declaration on the topic of Master Burglars and such.

“What of the contract though? You’re forgetting it,” Fíli protested, biting into his third muffin.

“Right, the contract. It was a very long contract, including in details the burglar’s duty and his share in the treasure...and there were the minutiae, where it was said that the dwarves would not be responsible for the troubles our hobbit might fall in, including all the ways the dragon could dispatch him.”

“Oh, tell me about the dragon!” Fíli begged him.

“So, the dragon...”

 

“They’ve both fallen asleep.”

It had been so easy to slip into the world created by Bilbo’s words and leave part of the ache behind. He had let himself be lulled by the sound of the melekûn’s voice like his nephews had been, wandering into the woods and up the hills, challenging foes and escaping dangers, trusting the Master Burglar with his thoughts and his heart. The hobbit of the tale could be no one else than Bilbo in Thorin’s heart. So Thorin believed in his bravery and his kindness, cheered with Fíli at the burglar’s cunning and the company’s victories, and hoped that the dwarves in the tale would prove less short-sighted than him.  

Neither did he forget Bilbo. The narrator was never truly out of sight. It always lingered between the lines, so amused and absorbed in his own tale that Thorin could not help being charmed - the story was, after all, an insight into Bilbo’s mind, colourful, rich, and brilliant like he was. Maybe this was the reason why Thorin had suddenly found himself sitting on the rug beside Fíli, fatally drawn closer to Bilbo (who had left his armchair to join the dwarfling before the fireplace when the night had grown colder).

Kíli had already been sleeping then, snuggled against Thorin’s chest, and his uncle had cautiously put him down on a nest of cushions. Fíli had followed his brother, first putting his head into Bilbo’s lap, then closing his eyes but assuring them that he was perfectly awake and wanted to know more of the Master Burglar’s magic ring, and eventually falling deeply asleep mid-story.

“Here, let me,” Thorin murmured, shifting Fíli so that he was no longer in Bilbo’s lap.

The prince grew slightly worried when Bilbo stood up - they hadn’t talked yet, _for Mahal’s sake!_ \- but the melekûn made a sign to stay quiet and still. He vanished and then came back with a blanket to drape over the two sleeping brothers.

Thorin’s heart felt so very heavy at the sight of the fondness Bilbo had for his sister-sons that when the melekûn made to get up again, Thorin’s hand flew to his tunic. He grabbed its hem and pulled gently, but it was enough for Bilbo to slip down and land on his bottom beside the prince with a soft _ouch_. Before either of them could speak, Thorin was cupping Bilbo’s jaw and ducking in for a kiss.

Bilbo’s mouth was slightly open, his breath warm with his second cup of tea. Thorin pressed his lips to his, part of his mind hoping that he would feel the melekûn respond in kind and the other part knowing that it would not be so. He backed away before Bilbo could reject him, though his fingertips lingered on Bilbo’s cheek and his eyes indulged in the minute details of Bilbo’s face - the pattern of the freckles dusted over his cheekbones, the little dimple on his hairless chin, the flutter of his eyelashes making it more difficult to detect the exact shade of colour of his eyes.  

“I love you.”

Thorin had not planned to say anything of the sort. He was no less surprised than Bilbo at hearing himself murmuring such words, yet Bilbo’s answer hurt him all the same

“Don’t be silly,” Bilbo murmured, turning his head away.

For a long moment Thorin thought that he would not be able to speak again. His mouth felt dry, the taste of Bilbo’s mouth forgotten but the melekûn’s answer driving through his heart with the force of a pickaxe breaking stones.

“We need to talk,” he said at last, surprised at how his voice sounded strange even to his ears.

“You’re using your nephews to force me to listen,” Bilbo pointed out, taking a look at the dwarflings as if to check whether they were still sleeping or aware of what was passing. His shoulders slumped down in relief at Fíli’s snores.

“Would you have opened your door if not for them?” Thorin asked in return.

“Keep it quiet,” Bilbo reproached him, since the dwarf’s voice had risen slightly. Not that Thorin was angry at Bilbo, but he _was_ angry and would have been very close to yelling if not for his nephews. “Of course I wouldn’t have let you in,” the melekûn admitted, shrugging.

“So I had to bring them with me,” Thorin hissed through his teeth.

Bilbo’s look frightened him, too peaceful as it was. The prince suddenly understood that the whole pretension of calmness had been for Fíli’s sake as well as his - Bilbo would not alarm the dwarflings with a gloomy mood, but neither would he allow Thorin to see his pain plainly. The fact that Bilbo would not share his sorrow nor his rage with him made Thorin feel closer to panic, for it meant that the melekûn was trying to exclude him in every way possible.

“Please, let me explain,” he begged, not daring to touch Bilbo but burning with the desire to express his feelings without words, now that they felt like ashes in his mouth.

“There’s nothing to explain,” Bilbo replied, shaking his head. “You took a bet on teaching me how to become a dwarf. Everything between you and me was a bet.”

“It wasn’t,” Thorin denied. Bilbo’s skeptical look forced him to lower his eyes in mortification. “Yes, there was a bet that I should have never accepted in the first place. It was cruel and stupid on my part, and I was too proud to admit, even to myself, that all I was interested in was spending some time with you and teaching you the customs of my kin. It might have started as a bet, but I never lied about my feelings. Our lessons, our quarrels, your progress, the pleasure I took in sharing my culture with you, weren’t a lie. I almost didn’t think of the bet during our lessons and meetings, except to repeat to myself that I should have talked to you - but I feared your reaction and I truly wanted to see you accepted among my people.”

“So that you didn’t have to be ashamed of me,” Bilbo murmured.

“It was wrong,” Thorin murmured, unable to deny that there had been a time when he had thought his fondness for Bilbo something to disguise. “Yet all the things I said to you, all my touches, were never a pretension. Please, you must believe me - I really like you, Bilbo,” Thorin whispered fervently.

He said _like_ because he could not bring himself to say _love_ and be rejected twice in a row.

“I must do nothing,” the melekûn snapped. Then he lowered his voice to an angry whisper. “You like me so much that you want to change me. You want me to look like a dwarf, so you gave me clothes and beads; you want me to speak like a dwarf, so you taught me Khuzdul and taught me how to flatter a dwarf in his own language; you want me to be something different from myself. You wanted to improve me, to make me _enough_ for you so that you didn’t feel guilty about spending time with me. Maybe you liked me once, but now I don’t know _whom_ you like, Thorin. I’m not sure what you’ve turned me into, a dwarf-hobbit who is neither a dwarf nor a hobbit, and does not belong anywhere.”

“With me Bilbo,” Thorin interrupted him, his hand brushing the white of Bilbo’s knuckles. “You belong with me.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t feel anything of the sort. I feel like a toy ship made of cork and thrown into the river as if someone could ever expect it to survive its flowing. _This_ is not what I’m made for, Thorin. I shouldn’t have tried to pretend to be something different from myself and you shouldn’t have helped me with this.”

“How can you not see it?” Thorin hissed. “This is not pretending. You’re a hobbit, but you aren’t _just_ a hobbit. I didn’t turn you into a dwarf - whatever you or my brother may think, you could never be mistaken for a dwarf and I wouldn’t take you for one, not in a hundred years. You know how traditions are important to me, so yes, the fact that you tried to understand them and respect them made my affections for you grow. I liked to see you wearing my colours and my beads, and Mahal knows how it arouses my desire to hear you speak Khuzdul. Yet it’s not the point of you, it’s not the point of my interest in you,” he gritted through his teeth. “I know I’m responsible for this mess and I’d do anything in my power to have you forgiveness Bilbo, but please listen to me,” Thorin implored him, when he saw the hobbit averting his gaze. “You’re perfect as you are, and the fact that it took me a while to see it doesn’t make it untrue - it only makes me a fool.”

“You say _you_ as if you knew whom you’re talking about.”

“I _do_ know. You may think that I couldn’t see you beyond all these lessons, as if I couldn’t hear your voice when you were speaking my language or recognise your face when you were dressed like a dwarf... but I do. I hear you and I see you, and there’s nothing confused about it - actually I’ve never been so clear-minded about anyone like I’m about you,” Thorin admitted ruefully, rubbing his neck and peering at Bilbo. “Last night I...”

“We won’t talk about last night,” Bilbo interrupted him, stiffening and on the verge of getting up.

“It was real,” Thorin growled, his hand suddenly heavy on Bilbo’s wrist. He saw the melekûn’s mouth open in a mute gasp and he took his fingers away, flustered. “The beads you left behind this morning...I taught you that beads are a token of affections among Khazâd and they are looked upon as a public claim.”

 _My beads for you were no different._ He had designed them, one by one, including that seventh mithril bead sporting his and Bilbo’s initials as well as a small pattern of acorns and oak leaves - a reminder of the melekûn’s beloved brass buttons and of their first kiss under the snow, but also a symbol (yes, Thorin had checked with Bilbo first with as much nonchalance as possible) of nobility, loyalty, and endurance. He had not properly explained the meaning of that last bead to Bilbo, but it could not have been misunderstood.

“I know,” Bilbo replied at last.

 _That’s why I left them behind_ \- Bilbo did not say it, but Thorin heard it all the same. This time he was the one left gasping for breath, trying to fill the void created by Bilbo’s words. Bilbo did know what Thorin had meant with the gift of the beads, and either he did not believe him or did not mean to accept any offer from the prince. Either way, Thorin was rejected.

“Fíli can sleep here,” Bilbo continued, looking at the sleeping dwarflings, “but Kíli will want his mother when he wakes. You had better to take him back to Dís.” He licked his lips and took another glance at Thorin, who felt completely unable to process anything Bilbo had said. “You can go now.”

It made Thorin’s mind snap in pain, as if he had been whipped.

“Bilbo, please,” he repeated, but his words sounded as tired and hopeless as Bilbo’s - _don’t be silly._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> “If I say that he’s a burglar, a burglar he is, or he will be when the time comes” is obviously a quote from Gandalf’s speech in Tolkien’s _The Hobbit_ , as well as Thorin’s next words (“there’s a lot more to him than you guess, and a deal more than he has any idea about himself”).


	18. Without You

The fallen snow muffled the sounds of the hooves on the road, so that Bilbo noticed the approach of the small party only when it was almost upon him. He stepped aside to make way for the riders, his naked feet sinking into the soft patches of snow piled on both sides of the large steps. He was not interested in the identity of the riders and in fact hoped that they would not mind him - a vain hope, he understood, when he saw that Heptifili was leading them.

“Master Baggins!” the dwarf called, straightening himself on the saddle and giving the immediate order to stop.

“Hello,” Bilbo replied with a bow. He could have greeted Hepti and his companions in Khuzdul, but he did not feel like it - lest they remembered him as the halfling pretending to be a dwarf.

It was a small company, including three guards carrying axes, plus a couple of clerks he had seen before working for Hepti. They all wore fur capes, but Hepti’s was light grey and adorned with gold pendants, and his pony was a proud small beast as white as milk.

“So it’s true what they say,” Hepti commented, “you’ve taken a liking to Dale.” He caressed his golden beard and lowered his voice before adding: “Or should I say a disliking to Erebor?”

“I may have discovered myself eager for novelties,” Bilbo replied, trying to keep any edge out of his voice.

Hepti’s sceptical look irritated him though - _blasted dwarves and their bluntness!_ What did Hepti think? That he would confide his troubles on the road with guards and clerks listening to his whining? As if only Khazâd were allowed to have some pride!

“Then you’ll not turn down my offer, Master Baggins. I do not remember having ever spoken with you alone before,” the councillor pointed out. He made a gesture to the guards, “Give Master Baggins one of the ponies.”

“What? No, that’s completely unnecessary!” Bilbo squeaked, when he saw one of the guards dismounting and leading a brown pony toward him.

The thing looked harmless enough and Bilbo had spent a good deal of time in the saddle to reach Erebor with Gandalf, but this hardly meant that he had become fond of riding - _feet on the ground and you’ll be all right_ was one of his favourite mottos. The guard did not seem impressed by his scowl, neither by his protests that he would be delighted to keep walking, thank you very much; instead the dwarf hauled him off his feet without a word and threw him on the pony.

“I’ll manage from now on, thank you,” Bilbo hissed, when he caught the dwarf on the verge of adjusting his foot into the stirrup.

The guard made an Iglishmêk gesture which meant _as you wish_ and marched away with the air of having been slightly offended by the hobbit’s hot temper. It took Bilbo some effort not to spur the pony forward and leave all the dwarves behind - his flight would have been in vain, considering that the steps and the snow considerably slowed the ponies’ pace and he would be unable to outdistance anyone. Hepti gave another order for the guards and the clerks to fall a little behind, so that he and Master Baggins could talk at their leisure. Not that Bilbo was particularly keen on it, but he was trapped.

“How was the market then?” Hepti asked.

“How do you know I was at the market?” Bilbo asked suspiciously.

“It’s an easy guess. You don’t know anyone in Dale, so you cannot have gone there to visit a friend. Being _eager for novelties_ ,” Hepti grinned, while they started their ascent toward Erebor, “I cannot think of a better place for you to spend some of your time. Besides, your bag seems considerably _stuffed_.”   

“Some gifts,” Bilbo admitted, patting his bag absent-mindedly.

“Not parting ones I hope,” Hepti replied, frowning. Since Bilbo said nothing, he spoke again. “I also see that you haven’t got any escort, so I assume that my brother-in-law knows nothing of your excursion.”

“Why should he? I’m the King’s guest, not a prisoner to be guarded,” the hobbit said, stiffening.

“A honoured guest and a friend to be guarded from the dangers on the road and in town. We may not be used to melekûnh in Erebor, but neither are Dale-people. You might have aroused inappropriate curiosity and found yourself in trouble, not to speak of the thieves and crooks who hide in the market crowd.”

“I’m not a child,” Bilbo pointed out through his teeth. “Let me remind you that I survived on the road and came to Erebor unharmed. Do you think Gandalf was always there to help? Do you think that I was nothing but a burden to him? I can defend myself quite well, as a matter of fact - I may not be a dwarf, but I’m no damsel in distress.”

“Peace, Master Baggins,” Hepti begged, raising his hand as if to stop the torrent of the hobbit’s words. “I see that you wouldn’t be pleased by your friends’ concern.”

“What friends?” Bilbo asked, feeling that he could indulge in some cruelty of his own.

“Those for whom you’ve bought gifts,” the dwarf reminded him with a swift smile. “I wonder if any of the Durins may deserve some of those. My sons would be disappointed otherwise, though I guess they would likely settle on a story as long as it’s yours.”

“There’s something for your sons,” Bilbo admitted, softened by the thought of Fíli and Kíli. He licked his lips and added, not looking at Hepti. “They’ve nothing to do with _that_ , after all.”

“You must know that I opposed the whole idea since the beginning.”

“Dís told me,” Bilbo nodded, “but I also know that you didn’t think to tell me anything about it. You called me _friend_ like the rest of them, yet you didn’t warn me as a friend would have done. I shouldn’t be surprised, your brother-in-law went as far as to give me _courting_ gifts right before winning his bet against Frerin.”

“So you know that he meant to court you,” Hepti said, looking positively stunned. Bilbo made a face.

“Do you think me stupid? Well, you’ve reason to - I’ve been fooled by your lot after all. I may have not understood everything Thorin did and said before and during the Mahalmerag, but he let me guess a good deal during our last talk. So I sought my answers - _mithril is for spouses_ , right?”

“Yes. It’s the most valuable and noble of metals, and therefore highly appreciated as a courting gift.”

“At least some of the comments I overheard during the Mahalmerag make sense now. I think the King of Greenwood himself guessed it when he saw my mithril shirt,” Bilbo mused. “I also assume you know that your wife kindly pointed out that this should mean something to me - as a proof of her brother’s good willing to court me as per tradition. I hold a different opinion on the matter, for if her brother had any respect for me he would have taken pain to _inform me_ that he was courting. He made a fool of me in this respect as well.”

“She told me,” Hepti admitted, though his expression had darkened considerably. “She also told me that you called her visit _meddling_. She was mighty furious, you know...but it lasted a couple of hours - she’s truly sorry for the state of things. And you may add my apologies to hers. You’re right, I might not have been enthusiastic about the bet, but I didn’t stop them either. At the time you were...”

“A stranger?” Bilbo interrupted him, bristly. “So it was acceptable to bet on me as if I was a pig running the Midsummer’s race at Michel Delving.”

“You hold _pig races_?” Hepti repeated, slightly dumbfounded. The hobbit shrugged.

“The point is that what they did was cruel. And it has not become so because Thorin has taken it into his head to court me or you want to call me friend. It would have been wrong and arrogant even if I had been just a stranger - and in truth I don’t think I was, at least not to your brother-in-law.”

“Thorin is perfectly serious concerning the courtship,” Hepti declared.

“You too?” Bilbo groaned. “Please. I don’t mean to despise you all to the end of my days. I think I’ll find it in myself to forgive you sooner or later, though I may not believe your professions of friendship for a long while. Yet this habit of trying to convince me that I should give Thorin some credit doesn’t sit well with me. Dís tried, Frerin too, even Gandalf said something about Thorin’s _unfortunate timing_ \- as if he had not bidden his time most conveniently! Balin called yesterday and I’m sure Dwalin would like to add something by the look he gave me this morning. Even my friends the toymakers think that I should give him a chance. At least I’ve not received any visit from the King under the Mountain yet. Why are you all so set on persuading me?”

“Isn’t it simple? We love him.” Again, the bluntness of dwarves left Bilbo breathless. Still, he had to admit that his own words had hardly been less sharp and direct, tired as he was of keeping his thoughts and his rage mostly to himself. “He’s not the dwarf he would like to become, not yet. He’s not as honourable as he would like to be, neither so brave and generous. He’s greedy, haughty, and stubborn.”

“That’s quite something, coming from another dwarf,” Bilbo muttered.

“You’ve your own prejudices about Khazâd,” Hepti replied with a grin. “It’s only fair, we have our own about melekûnh. Yet, I think there was something grand going on with your stay in Erebor, something we might have all learnt and that would have changed us for the better. I don’t think the chance is completely wasted, not yet, much in the same way Thorin has still his chances to grow into a better dwarf. And the point is that he’s better with you around. Happier too.”

“I see. Your wife told me quite the same, though more...fiercely,” Bilbo winced, recalling the scene with Dís and how they had quarrelled about Thorin. “I’m not indifferent to the idea of..making him happy, but he was supposed to make me happy as well - I can assure you that I’m _not_. I don’t know if I want to be in love with someone who can hurt me so.”

Bilbo blushed at his last words. He had not put the matter in such clear terms before, but there was something in Hepti which invited his confidence. Though he was guilty along with the others, he seemed more sympathetic than his wife or his brothers-in-law.

“I think that we’re all bound to draw a line at a certain point. There’re things that no one should ever tolerate and things that must be agreed between the lovers. I cannot say where you should draw that line, Master Baggins. It might be that Thorin did you such wrongs that could never be repaid. It might be that you only need time and some peace to think about his proposal...”

“Sweet Yavanna, you cannot think that he _means_ it!” Bilbo huffed.

Hepti looked at him in silence for a while, before speaking again.

“Let me understand, if you don’t mind. You’re mad at him, I get it and I respect your feelings about the bet. He apologised and somewhat made his intentions clear - yet you think he doesn’t mean it. So you’re not rejecting him out of rage and hurt, but also because...you don’t believe him?”

“How could I? He was just set on winning the bet...”

“I think that there’s no way of stretching the truth so much as to say that it was all about the bet. You may not like the Durins’ meddling, but they wouldn’t meddle if they did not think him damned serious about the courtship. What would you do if you were convinced of his sincerity?”

“He’s _not_ in love with me,” Bilbo almost cried, his hands torturing the leather reins - fortunately the pony was used to dwarf warriors and the antics of a hobbit hardly bothered him. “How could he? He’s _maybe_ in love with someone he created, a dwarf he moulded himself from the scraps of a strange hobbit,” he said in what was little more than a broken whisper. “It’s only an idea in his mind and the illusion of a dance. He will leave it behind soon.”

 _And my name will be a hollow sound_ Bilbo thought, bitterness prickling his eyes.

After his outburst, they rode in silence for a good while. It suited Bilbo well, since it spared him the effort of speaking despite the ache he felt at the sight of the grove where he and Thorin had taken their first walk in the snow. He had been very happy then, so happy to kiss a prince.

“Thorin is in a rage,” Hepti said, some time later. Erebor’s doors where clearly in sight then. “He asked Dís to stay out of it, but when she learnt that you had rejected his courtship I couldn’t stop her and she called on you. Then they all thought that it was time to say something on his behalf, though he didn’t ask anyone to do such a thing.”

“Are the gifts Dís’s idea as well?” Bilbo inquired, stubbornly looking ahead.

“No, those are honestly Thorin’s,” Hepti laughed quietly.

“Ridiculous dwarf,” the hobbit mumbled, growing a little flustered when he realised how much fondness could be detected in those two words of his. “He sent me flowers, you know? I remember telling him once that flowers and food are better ways to say _sorry_ among hobbits, but...it’s Winter, for Yavanna’s sake!”

“If the rumours are true, he managed anyway, didn’t he?”

“If _managing_ means overflowing my quarters with baskets of dried flowers, paper flowers, carved flowers, golden wrought flowers, without speaking of the gems cut into flower shapes...yes, he did manage, the big oaf,” Bilbo grumbled, trying to ignore the dwarf’s broad smile. He was _complaining_ , not appreciating - was it so difficult to understand? “I sent them all back obviously. And what did I find in my rooms the day after? _Snowdrops_.”

“I was told that he went to pick them up personally, one by one. He thought it was important that he did it by himself, searching for the surviving flowers down the slopes and through the woods.”

“I kept them,” Bilbo said quite morosely. Then he sighed and admitted: “They were lovely.”

“As lovely as the food?”

“Is there any chance that someone in the whole Mountain might not be acquainted with this folly?” the hobbit groaned. “I still cannot believe that Bombur agreed to become his accomplice! Turning my own recipes against me and then filling my room with all sort of dishes, soups and pies, breads and preserves, and a ridiculous number of tea blends and cakes.”

“Fíli told me that you had quite the party with all the food.”

“Well, I couldn’t possibly eat all that alone and it seemed a pity to waste any of it. Bombur, his brother, and his cousin were glad to join me...and Fíli had his share as well. I suppose that your brother-in-law thought that this too required his direct involvement - Bombur refused to confess it, but I’m sure that a couple of queer-looking dishes were not Bombur’s doing...” Bilbo muttered, his nose twitching at the memory of the dull smell coming from one of the pots and the greyish bits of another dish.

“It could have been worse. Once Dís put a dead boar in my study - she thought that it would be very fine to prove to me her strength and persistence in the hunt...and yes, I was supposed to be the boar. Which was dead and bleeding all over my papers.”

Bilbo could not help laughing at the picture. It felt strange, as if he had not been laughing enough lately and his jaw could not really keep up with such mirth. He ended up rubbing his cheek and grinning a little sheepishly.

“Now I see why you seem so understanding of my predicament - you do know what it means to love someone of the line of Durin,” Bilbo commented. It took him a moment to realise what he had just said.

He felt the heat spreading on his cheeks and down his neck; he lowered his head, fixing his gaze on the pony’s mane, though he could not take back his words. He did not see Hepti’s smile, but he guessed it all the same. _Fool of a hobbit_ he repeated to himself, over and over, while they passed under the great doors into the Mountain.

 

The handkerchiefs did it though.

As if his conversation with Heptifili had not upset him enough, Bilbo returned from his visit to the market in Dale to find his quarters invaded by an army of pocket handkerchiefs, of all colours, sizes, and patterns. Some of them were fine things with a bit of lace or little flowers embroidered along the borders, but others were exactly what you would expect from dwarves - silver and turquoise pendants, _seriously?_ They were, in any case, more than Bilbo could use in a lifetime.

Oh no, he did not mean to accept such a ridiculous number of handkerchiefs!

Muttering to himself, he made a quick job of picking up the packages and small boxes, deciding to keep just a couple or three - fine, _six_ \- of the nicer ones, since he would need them anyway on the road. Because he had chosen to go back, hadn’t he? Gandalf was going to be Thranduil’s guest in Greenwood, then in Spring he would travel East and there would be other stops - Beorn’s and Rivendell. Despite his not exactly brilliant start with the King of the Woodland Realm, Bilbo was quite keen on discovering more about his dominion, and he looked forward to meeting Master Beorn and Lord Elrond of Rivendell again. Travelling would serve him as a distraction and he might hope that he would return to Bag End with a lighter heart.

Yet, while he piled the boxes in his arms and carried them just outside his door (a servant would come later to take them away to whatever place rejected gifts were fated), he realised that he could no longer keep avoiding Thorin - hiding in his rooms, prolonging his visits to Bofur’s toyshop, or taking his strolls as far as Dale. They met more frequently than Bilbo could bear, since he could not always come up with a proper excuse to desert the King’s table, but Thorin had never tried to climb over the wall Bilbo had raised between them. And the hobbit had done his best to keep himself from meeting the prince’s hurt gaze, as well as from lingering on the sight of Thorin brooding over his cup of wine.

The gifts were always brought by servants. Clearly Thorin thought that his intentions were nothing less than obvious and never sent a note along. This silent, obstinate way of courting would have annoyed and amused Bilbo in equal parts, if he had not been employing most of his energies into denying its meaning. He was not being courted, so it was not a matter of accepting or refusing the gifts, since none of them had been given with him in mind. The one being courted was an idea, a wisp of smoke - an impossible dwarf-hobbit who had lived for one night (what a night, though!).

 _Nonetheless,_ _I must choose_.

Disappointed and hurt as he was, Bilbo did not wish ill on the prince - well, he _might_ have wished that Thorin’s big toe would catch as many edges as possible first thing in the morning, and also wondered if the Mountain’s ravens would be amenable to considering the prince a favourite target of their droppings...but nothing more than this. Even his resentment, Bilbo knew, would subside in time and he could hope for his affection to do the same.

He was still confused and unsure about what had happened, what had been real and what had not. His own feelings, which had seemed so unmistakable during and after the Mahalmerag dances, had been turned into treacherous ground. The fact that his mind could not convince his heart that it had all been a farce angered him to no end. _Do I know him?_ Bilbo often wondered - sometimes _him_ was Thorin, sometimes the melekûn of Thorin’s fantasies.

When Dís had cornered him, pretending to understand whether he was in love with her brother or not, Bilbo had tried to explain that the whole thing was such a muddle that he could not begin to think about what or whom he should believe.

“You’ve not turned into a dwarf,” she had hissed, clearly frustrated by his answer. “You’ve turned into my brother: _wilfully blind_!”

It was an irritating coincidence that Gandalf had suggested the same on the Mahalmerag’s night, implying that Bilbo and Thorin would often choose blindness over clarity, closing their eyes to the truth of their heart. _Sometimes it’s necessary_ Bilbo reasoned with himself, for the truth about his heart would not make any difference but in terms of regrets and bitterness.

He had opened his mind and opened his heart - he had welcomed all novelties, and Thorin above all. He had ended up questioning his own identity, his opinions, his culture; he had lost a piece of himself, for he could not be the same hobbit he was before. In the end, his old fears had become true and this adventure had changed him for better and for worse.

He took the finest handkerchief in his hands, studying its delicate embroidery. He sighed, then he folded the handkerchief and went through his wardrobe to find his best (last) waistcoat. It had been a while since the last time he had worn a proper waistcoat, dwarf garments and all.

He slipped the handkerchief in the pocket and patted it.

“Tomorrow then.”

 

*

 

What a mystery the way strangers can grow so familiar over a short period of time! The face that Bilbo had found so alien, dominated by a thick dark beard and a big nose, and yet so meaningless and anonymous (for all dwarves had beards and a massive nose), now caught his eyes every time.

He would indulge in the sight of thick eyebrows, thin pale lips, the lines drawn by an unexpected smile - not that there had been much smiling on Thorin’s part lately. Of the long hair, a bizarre and wild thing to his hobbit eyes, he had learnt the softness when it was just washed and he could run it like strands of silk between his fingers. The build of Thorin’s body, once an insurmountable obstacle to any pretence of gentleness, had revealed its charms in the startling gracefulness of Thorin’s movements, in the authority of his bearing, in the rough kindness of his embrace.

Would that Thorin’s body had remained a foreign land! But no, Bilbo was condemned to look at him up on his throne, and see in his mind the details his eyes could not catch from such a distance. His mind could conjure the shade of Thorin’s blue eyes and the sound of his breath, the warmth of his fingers and their hold on the throne’s armrests, even the slight indent left by the crown on his forehead.

The prince was wearing rich garments - dark fur upon his shoulders and down his chest, silver for his belt and boots, blue gems sewed in his velvet robe. The crown was a little tilted upon his head and Bilbo felt the impulse to march right under the throne to set it straight. He did not, of course, and stood quiet among the crowd, hidden from view until it would be his turn. The clerk who had taken his name to add it to the list of petitioners and suppliants had probably found it odd that the notorious _melekûn_ should wish to appear to the King during the Kataühybîr, but he had not questioned him further.        

“Master Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, the Shire,” the herald announced.

Bilbo stumbled through the crowd, while some dwarves stepped aside and others looked at him blankly.

“Yes, it’s me, sorry, oh thank you, my turn yes,” he mumbled.

It was not until he had crossed the narrow bridge to the platform where the thrones stood that he realised how very _public_ it was going to be. Guards, clerks, councillors, artisans, miners would listen to his words and observe him, wondering about his motives and spreading the news through the whole Mountain. No longer concealed in the crowd, he felt more conspicuous than ever while he stood alone, a little hobbit in the great halls of Khazâd - like the first time he felt oppressed by the arrogant beauty of the great cavern where gigantic stone dwarves turned upon him their severe countenance.

Why hadn’t he asked Gandalf to go with him? The wizard would not be pleased to know that he had acted without even asking for his advice. _But I couldn’t do otherwise!_ Bilbo protested in his mind, a moment before the weight of Thorin’s gaze fell upon him.    

If he had not been so nervous, Bilbo would have been amused by Thorin’s surprise. For a brief moment Thorin looked completely dumbstruck, as if a dragon, rather than a hobbit, had suddenly appeared in the hall and began to play an harp on top of it. Thorin quickly recovered from his stupor though, and schooled his expression into the usual scowl. His voice was only slightly uneven when he hissed:

“What’s the meaning of this?”

 _That’s a most difficult question_ Bilbo thought, while he performed a stiff bow with his hand on his heart. When he straightened his back Thorin was looking at him as he could pin him on the spot with the sheer strength of his gaze - he was certainly doing a good job of it, since Bilbo’s legs felt like lead and his tongue dried and swollen in his mouth. Yet, as soon as he guessed that Thorin was on the verge of rising from his throne, his tongue was loosened and words poured out of his mouth as if to stop the prince’s motion.

“I was once told that during the Kataühybîr the King under the Mountain lends his ear to everyone who seeks his judgement, regardless of race and status. Such intelligence was proved true when I came to Erebor and stood here where now I stand again. He who is known as Tharkûn asked you to welcome a guest from the far away Shire. You did it and you bestowed upon me the honour of sitting at your table, King Thráin son of Thrór. For this, I own you my gratitude.”

He had spoken well, that much he knew. He saw Thráin nod in acknowledgment and made him sign to continue. Thorin, on the other hand, seemed to have caught up with what was going on and his gaze had turned stormier than ever.

“Why are you dressed for travel?” the prince asked.

Bilbo shuddered at the breach in the traditional procedure, for Thorin was not supposed to interrupt an appeal to the King. Questions he might ask and his opinion would be taken into account - _later_ though, when Bilbo would have revealed the purpose of his presence at the Kataühybîr. No one was allowed to forbid the postulants from making their pleas known and, though Thorin had not tried to silence Bilbo rather than urged his confession, Thráin’s tone was sharp when he rebuked his son.

“Hush. We will hear what the melekûn has to say,” the King declared.

The blush on Thorin’s cheeks made Bilbo feel slightly ashamed. He did not plan to humiliate Thorin before his kin and his people, but he was honest enough to admit that he had accepted the chance that it might happen. His words might become, at least to well-informed ears, a public act of rejection. Yet Bilbo hoped that it would serve them both, sparing them the misery of a private parting.

“You honoured me again, King Thráin, on the night of the Mahalmerag, when you called me Khazâd-bâhu before your people and accepted my wishes. For this, too, I thank you,” Bilbo bowed again, before continuing his speech. “I come today to ask you to look kindly upon my request. I wish to part from you and your people, King under the Mountain. Though I could have taken my leave with less...” Bilbo was mute for a moment, unsure about what word would fit “... _fuss_ ,” he decided at last, “it’s my wish to speak openly of my stay in Erebor. I came here a stranger, and a strange kind of stranger indeed, but I was allowed to sit among your relatives and allies, and speak my mind to those who probably know better than a hobbit from the Shire does. I was taught Khuzdul by your older son and your daughter trusted me with her sons, while your younger son...well, he gave me some advice to make my beard grow.” There was some laughter coming from the audience and Thráin himself smiled. “I was made to feel at home,” Bilbo said, trying to keep his tone steady and his gaze fixed on the King - but he knew, oh he knew!, that Thorin was so close. “Yet this is not my home. My home lies many weeks of journey from here,” he pointed toward what he presumed was the East. “If I leave today I might be able to tend to my garden in Summer.”

There was a strange sound then, something not quite articulate. A choked gasp, half-drowned in the buzz of the crowd. Then Bilbo heard a distinct _No_ and he knew it was Thorin’s, even before he looked at the prince and saw his pained bewilderment. _You see, I’m a coward_ Bilbo would have liked to say then - he might scrap up some courage when he had no time to think twice about what he was doing, but in the end he remained a coward, someone who would not face his one-night lover to tell him that he was leaving.

He had chosen the Kataühybîr because Thorin would not try to cajole him with his sweet words and his pretty eyes in public. There would be no bitter quarrels, no hollow promises. Before his subjects, Thorin son of Thráin would finally put aside that preposterous notion of courting Bilbo Baggins, gentle-hobbit.

This way Bilbo would not incur the danger of believing Thorin’s words or the heat in his eyes. He would take his leave and go before nightfall - he had already made arrangements for a lodging in Dale and there he would wait for Gandalf to join him. Then there would be months of travel - dangers and discomforts included - until he would set foot in Bag End. He would slip back into his old life, a queer little bachelor with a suspicious fondness for books and maps, once the talk of the farthing for having played host to some rude dwarves. Yes, that would sum it up.

He saw Thorin open and close his mouth a couple of times, then turn sharply toward his father - he spoke in Khuzdul, too low and quick for Bilbo to catch any of his words. He could only detect the urgency of his tone and the underlying passion. Thráin replied in much the same manner, though he was far calmer than his son. He made a gesture which was not really an encouragement but rather a sort of amused permission.

Thorin bowed his head, then his eyes turned again to Bilbo. Some of his confidence had returned, so that when he rose from his seat Bilbo could not help noticing that Thorin seemed to have been shaped from whatever matter Kings were supposed to be made of. He exuded authority and righteousness, and also that slight heaviness expected from one wearing a crown. His hair glistened with perfumed oil and the dark shades under his eyes, suggesting nights of bad sleep, made him look more compelling - oh, this was one who wore his sorrow like others would wear jewels!

Bilbo knew that he was staring, forced to stillness at Thorin’s advance. One, two, three strides and the prince was before him, forcing Bilbo to crane his neck to hold his gaze. He just had the time to register the fact that he could _smell_ Thorin’s skin beneath the clothes and the silver - then he saw the dwarf kneel.

The shock of seeing Thorin on his knees sent Bilbo stumbling backward. The thought that he was on a platform suspended over a dark abyss made him whimper in horror, but Thorin reached for him, his hands exceptionally warm and firm on his waist, steadying him and stealing his attention back. Bilbo’s mouth felt empty, his eyes full of Thorin’s features - still blank and unreadable though they were.

Around them there was the tense silence of the crowd taken aback by their prince’s behaviour. Then, one of the clerks knelt down as Thorin had done. A guard did the same, followed by his companions, the courtiers and the councillors assisting the King during the Kataühybîr. One by one, all the dwarves gathered in the great halls went down on their knees. Bilbo turned his head right and left to see that no one, save him, stood. And all because they could not stand while that great oaf of a prince was on his knees! Only Thráin remained on his throne, observing the whole scene but clearly determined not to intervene.

“You haven’t spoken the whole truth,” Thorin pointed out gravely.

“Thorin, what are you doing?” Bilbo asked, wondering if he could force the prince to get back on his feet without making the situation worse. Oh, what was _he_ doing there, with a prince of Erebor kneeling at his feet as if they were characters in an old book of tales?

“Making amends,” the dwarf replied without even blinking. “For I owe you that.”

“Get up, for Yavanna’s sake, get up!” Bilbo begged him through his teeth.

Thorin gave him that look, the one he used when Bilbo was being unreasonable.

“Whatever might have been said about this melekûn, no one in this Kingdom could know his worth more than I do. Still, I’m bound to correct his words about his stay in Erebor, for he concealed much from you. I wish the truth to be widely known - this truth I offer _you_ , Master Bilbo Baggins of Bag End.” These last words Thorin spoke in a slightly lower tone, still enough to be heard. “Master Baggins didn’t lie out of malice - he tried to protect me from the shame I brought upon myself with my deeds. He, who was the one offended by my behaviour, concealed it, but I do not deserve this kindness.”

“Thorin, stop, you’ll regret speaking...” Bilbo babbled, now seriously worried.

“No, this I shall not regret,” the prince answered, shaking his head. “On our first meeting I thought this melekûn insignificant. I was conceited and prejudiced against him, for all I saw and believed about him didn’t agree with what I had taught myself to appreciate. I mistreated him, insulted him in his own home.” Thorin closed his eyes for a moment, then continued. “And though he was willing to give me a second chance, I repeated my mistakes when he came to Erebor, once again believing that a melekûn could not be worth my company and my attention. No, I did not make him feel at home, but he defeated my judgement in deeds and words, proving to me time after time what fool I had been - I found in him a loyal, generous friend, the sort of creature I would call myself fortunate to have at my side in good and bad times alike.”

Bilbo made to cover his face with his hands, but Thorin stopped him, taking his hands in his.

“I’m sorry that this is distressing to you,” the prince whispered gently, “but it must be.”

“It mustn’t,” Bilbo groaned.

“You offered me your friendship Master Baggins,” Thorin said, louder. _And more than your friendship_ , his passionate gaze suggested. “There was no honour in me when I accepted it. You did nothing to deserve my disloyalty, for I was fickle and treacherous whereas you were ever devoted and brave. I cannot offer you my beard, but I would gladly offer you my braids.”

With that Thorin let go of the hobbit’s hands, unsheathed his dagger, and offered it to Bilbo as if it was nothing.

“Thorin, no!” someone cried - it seemed to be Dís, but Bilbo could not check, hypnotised as he was by the sight of the blade laying across Thorin’s palms.

He did not know exactly how cutting his braids would affect Thorin’s status - how shameful it would look in the eyes of the Khazâd, but the alarmed noise rising around them was enough for him to guess that Thorin was doing the unspeakable.

“Please put that thing away,” the hobbit demanded, though his voice broke mid-sentence. “You perfect clothead,” he added in an angry whisper.  

Thorin’s shoulders sagged and he looked distressed rather than relieved, but he obeyed nonetheless. The chattering subsided, as if the crowd was now straining its ears to hear their prince’s next words as clearly as possible.

“You’ve already rejected my apologies as well as my... _offer_ in every possible way,” the dwarf admitted, with his head bowed and his long dark hair sliding down his shoulders. “Still, I must try.” He raised his head and looked around him before fixing his gaze on the hobbit once again. “It is my wish to court Master Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. This I ask with my father’s and my King’s blessing.”

Bilbo had not foreseen this. He had thought that Thorin would not dare, that his obstinacy would be overpowered by his pride at last, that he would not go as far as to declare his intentions before the whole bloody Mountain. Bilbo had mustered up his courage to speak before the crowd thinking that there wouldn’t be any scene since Thorin would not feel obliged to keep up with this folly of the courtship. He had tried to make it easy for them both, so that the prince’s offer could go unnoticed and his gifts forgotten.

All this he had planned because he _knew_ that Thorin was not serious. Remorseful yes, but not serious, not deep down - _deep down he must know that he’s not...he’s not. Period._ Now everything had grown more confused than it had been - and that was saying a great deal!

“Bilbo, look at me.”

He had turned his head, averting Thorin’s gaze. Though the prince’s pleading tone touched his heart, Bilbo could not look at him. He did not know what his face showed, but it was enough for Thorin to finally rise to his feet. Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut, but he heard the rustling of clothes, then felt Thorin’s fingers gently brushing his shoulder while he said:

“Adad, please.”

The King barked a string of orders. The noise grew louder behind Bilbo’s eyelids - shouts, complaints, a few cheers, and the sound of heavy boots tramping on the ground. Thorin’s hand between his shoulder blades nudged him until he was leaning against the dwarf’s chest, partly shielded from sight and sound by Thorin’s larger bulk.

“I’m sorry,” the dwarf murmured to his ear.

“How could you do this _publicly_?” he asked, his question half-muffled into the fur of Thorin’s overcoat.

“ _You_ decided to announce your departure publicly,” Thorin retorted, his fingers slightly heavier where they pressed on Bilbo’s back. “I only played along,” he added, a little sheepishly.

“I didn’t think you’d play along! You were supposed to...”

“What?” Thorin asked, taking a step back and keeping Bilbo at arms’ length. “Was I supposed to let you go as if you were nothing to me?”

With a shudder, the hobbit realised that they had been left alone. The King and his courtiers had retired, the guards had dispersed the crowd, then left themselves. Empty, the great halls of Erebor looked more enormous than ever and Bilbo felt exceedingly small.

“I cannot believe this,” he whimpered, then poked Thorin’s chest with his finger. “ _You_. You big chump, you arrogant imbecile! You interrupted the Kataühybîr to..”

“To speak with you,” Thorin concluded in his place, sounding far too calm for Bilbo’s tastes and racing heart. “In consideration of your patent distress at being proposed to in public, the Kataühybîr will resume later.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier if _we_ had taken this to a more private corner? You throw out of the halls your father the King, the court, and all those dwarves who have been queuing for hours to...”

Bilbo stopped talking to give a little cry. Thorin had hauled him off the ground, picking him up with an ease that was nothing short of infuriating. He had even gone as far as to close his big paw on Bilbo’s bottom, to keep him secured over his shoulder, and let the poor hobbit dangle like a sack of flour. Bilbo’s hands flew to grab Thorin’s garments, clutching at fur and leather in the hope that whatever the dwarf had in mind it did not include crossing any narrow bridge. The relief Bilbo felt when Thorin finally put him down was a short-lived one, for Bilbo found himself sitting upright on the prince’s throne.

“Oh no,” the hobbit gasped, trying to get up despite the fact that his feet did not quite touch the ground. “This is the single stupidest thing you’ve ever done!” he protested, earning a skeptical glance from the dwarf.

Thorin did not seem very impressed by Bilbo’s indignant squeaks about sitting on the throne. And clearly he had every intention of making a habit of going down on his knees, for he knelt again before Bilbo - thus preventing him from leaving the seat - and pressed his forehead against his legs. The gesture, so intimate and humble as it was, made Bilbo’s fingers twitch with the temptation to caress the prince’s head and his flushed cheek, to rest his fingertips on Thorin’s lips and keep him from making fools of them both. He stopped himself just in time and grabbed the throne’s armrest like Thorin had done in his place.

“I love you,” Thorin said, very slowly - as if he wanted to be sure that the hobbit could understand. Bilbo bit his tongue and his nails scraped the armrest’s surface, while he did his best to appear very interested in the carvings of the throne. “Won’t you accuse me again of _silliness_ , Master Baggins?” Thorin asked, the sneer ill-concealing the hurt in his voice.

“You know what I meant,” Bilbo murmured.

He had not forgotten Thorin’s words. A few days had passed and he had been replaying them in his mind over and over, trying to turn those words into meaningless, harmless things - pebbles rounded by the water rather than sharp rocks reducing his heart to shreds. But Thorin’s words had remained untarnished, nestled at the back of Bilbo’s mind like a beast ready to attack his self-imposed scepticism at any time.

 _I won’t believe them_ , he repeated to himself for the umpteenth time.   

“You meant you don’t believe me, because the way I offended you makes you doubt everything that has passed between us. I accept it, but let me prove you wrong. You proved me wrong so many times, have I not any chance to do the same for once?” the prince asked.

He was looking up at Bilbo with his blue eyes full of urgency.  

“You are deceiving yourself about your feelings for me,” the hobbit recited, a little mechanically. “I’m not who you think I am. It’s true, in the end this adventure has changed me - I’ve been changing since the day you stepped into my house. I’m not sure that my cousin Lobelia would recognise me anymore, let alone have anything to do with me...not that she has ever liked me to begin with. The point is that I’m not sure that _I_ would recognise myself or like what I’ve become. So I don’t know whom you love, Thorin.”

“After so much time you still get it wrong,” the dwarf snorted. “You think that going on an adventure means going out of your door and leaving your home behind to cross foreign borders. This is one way to do it,” he conceded, tilting his head. “But do you think that you’re the only one who’s been on an adventure? The only one who doesn’t know what has become of him? _I_ have changed. _You_ have changed me. I may have given you dwarf clothes and taught you my birth-language, but you’ve been teaching me so much in return and bared me for your eyes like no one has ever done. The only difference is that you’ve always been braver than I am; you once told me that there’s no such thing as an adventurous hobbit, but you’re that hobbit. And if there must be a home to come back to at the end of this journey, I want it to be _ours_.”

“How can you say such things?” Bilbo asked, stiffening.

“Our time together was sincere. The only farce was the bet, not the rest, for it was my alibi to have more time with you when I couldn’t admit that you had a claim on me,” Thorin murmured, slowly rising.

“I have no claim,” the hobbit muttered, though his fingers had given in to the temptation and they were now sliding along the hard planes of Thorin’s face.

“You saved Fíli’s life in the mines, but you saved _mine_ as well,” the dwarf replied, turning his head to kiss Bilbo’s fingertips. “Bilbo, you kept saving me every time you challenged my ideas, every time you disagreed with my opinions. You saved me because you would demand better of me every day.”

“So you want me to change you,” Bilbo said dryly.

“I want you to be at my side while I try to become an honourable dwarf, a good King, and a husband you may love and respect.” The word _husband_ sent a thrill down Bilbo’s spine, but he stubbornly ignored it. It was more difficult to ignore the way Thorin was looking at him in blatant, preposterous adoration. “Bilbo, I’ve not fallen in love with your pronunciation of Khuzdul, though I’ll admit it makes me proud and wanton,” the dwarf purred, half-closing his eyes. “And you can still improve, by the way,” he added, smirking at the dirty look his comment earned him.

“I should find myself a better teacher for that.”

Thorin chuckled, and his eyes were still bright with mirth and fondness when he said:

“Now, please tell me what I must do for you to accept my courtship.”


	19. Epilogue - I Have Grown Accustomed to His Dressing Gown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are...
> 
> First of all, I couldn't have achieved any of this without my amazing beta-reader [zaphobeeblebro](http://zaphodbeeblebro.tumblr.com/), who helped and encouraged me chapter by chapter. I couldn't have asked for more, and I'm thoroughly happy about our collaboration for this story. We are still working together on [Flowers and Flaws](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3379079/chapters/7391450), and I do hope she'll be at my side for the chapters and stories to come.  
> Thank you so much for your lovely work!
> 
> And thanks to all my readers, for the comments and the kudos.  
> It feels a little strange to upload the epilogue, and put an end to this adventure....but I hope you'll enjoy it.

It was the first splendid Market Day after a particularly rainy season.

The sky, though speckled with puffs of clouds, was gentian-blue, while the crisp morning breeze was filled with the scent of cut grass and warm bread just taken out of the oven. After so many weeks of obstinate rain, the farthing looked like it had gone through a good washing - there was a general air of cleanness about the roofs and the gardens, the ponies pulling carts down the road and the colourful stalls gathered in the main square.

Lobelia took a deep breath, looking upon the market as if she had composed such a pretty picture herself. Her sense of propriety and order felt gratified at the sight of the market activities taking place as usual. She spotted some of her gentle-hobbit acquaintances showing off their best garments, listened sceptically to sun-browned farmers commending the sweetness of their produces, entertained a couple of lady friends on the best way to preserve the whiteness of lace.

Her status was acknowledged by the bows and smiles she was offered by merchants and customers alike, so that Lobelia felt very pleased by her popularity and wondered whether she could prolong that congenial mood by buying herself a gift - some candied fruits or that green ribbon which would look very nice on her straw hat.

While she was musing about it, she kept strolling and eyeing the merchandise on display. Suddenly she caught something out-of-place in the corner of her eye and her suspicion was confirmed by the loud laugh that followed. Stepping out of the shadows of a stall at that very moment, Bilbo Baggins and his dwarf friend were clearly sharing some private joke. The dwarf effortlessly carried a basket bulging with purchases, while his other hand was pressed to his stomach as if to contain the next laughter. Bilbo was chuckling like a silly fauntling, his cheeks a little flushed and his eyes trained on the dwarf at his side.

They were both well dressed, Bilbo in his yellow waistcoat and blue jacket, while the dwarf wore a belt whose silver buckle probably weighed as much as a small pumpkin - after all, didn’t they insist that the dwarf was a prince of some kingdom in the West? Not that Lobelia had ever truly believed that. First of all, she had never seen the dwarf wearing a crown; second, a prince would not follow Bilbo like a puppy nor carry his groceries or help Master Holman with the new fence at Bag End. The dwarf was likely to be some crook and wanderer like most of his kin - rough, untrustworthy people those dwarves, though many of them were said to have treasures buried in caves and hides. To her annoyance, Lobelia had to admit that Master Baggins’ dwarf did seem quite wealthy; still, she would not have had a dwarf sleeping under her roof, likely to steal all her silver spoons and vanish like a puff of smoke - well, no one wanted to think about how dwarves had collected their treasures...

“Good morning cousin Lobelia,” Bilbo greeted her. And he had the cheek to add: “Marvellous day, isn’t it?”

“Good morning,” the dwarf said.

His previous merriment had turned to a stony expression which greatly bothered Lobelia - one could never know what these dwarves were thinking, with all that hair hiding their faces and concealing their malice. She realised that she had been staring and that Bilbo’s smile had turned a little stiff.

“Good morning Bilbo,” she replied, taking care to exclude the dwarf from her bidding as well as from her gaze.

She had done it so many times, but it still gave her a thrill to disregard etiquette in order to put Bilbo and his friend in their place. They had no right parading their scandalous _friendship_ , or what other terms were in fashion nowadays among vulgar folk to describe what had been going on in Bag End for the last few years. It was the fourth, yes the fourth Summer that this dwarf - this _Master Thorin_ as she had heard some of her own neighbours call him - had spent in the Shire. As if it was not enough to host a dwarf in Bag End for three months a year and be seen walking with him across the whole farthing, Bilbo brought him to dances, parties, markets, and every public occasion that tickled his fancy.

They had been the great scandal of the Midsummer’s ball three years ago, when Bilbo had danced five times with the dwarf. Nonetheless most hobbits (but not Lobelia and the gentle-hobbits of her circle) had been quite less shocked  when the same scene had been repeated for the next two years. It was also said that Bilbo and his dwarf had become welcome guests at Brandy Hall - no surprise there, since those queer Brandybuck folks were the only ones likely to invite Mad Baggins and his dwarf to their birthday parties.

The worst part was the fact that Bilbo did not look a single bit ashamed. In fact, he went on with his life quite the same way as before, showing himself in public without so much as a blush despite the fact that everyone in the four farthings knew about the dubious sort of trading he was leading with dwarves. Bilbo’s quirks, his ill-boding interest in books and long walks, and his awful temper had never suited Lobelia’s tastes, but this was far worse. It was perfectly outrageous that he should be allowed to keep company with honest hobbits while he _entertained_ such guests in his house.

_What of the morals?_

Lobelia knew that not everyone shared her views. Weaker characters had been won over by Bilbo’s cunning and their approval bought at the price of some plumbing or smithing (for example, the Brownlocks had been praising far and wide Master Thorin’s competent advice on their new indoor bathroom), while others could not be bothered.

“Unless that dwarf is the one sneaking into my garden to nibble at the carrots, I don’t give a puff of smoke about how many dwarves live under Master Baggins’ roof,” a farmer of the Hornblower family had had the cheek to say, when Lobelia had suggested that the oldest and gentlest folks in the Shire should have stuck together against such offensive conduct.

So the number of hobbits willing to tolerate the current situation increased every year. And Bilbo grew bolder, publicly linking his arm to the dwarf’s and flaunting their intimacy as if it was not disgraceful. His mother had been a bad apple, true enough, and not even her marriage with the respectable Bungo Baggins had cured her of her queerness. Yet Belladonna’s eccentricity was little compared to her son’s appalling ways. Lobelia was not completely naive about the sort of dalliances some hobbits preferred to a regular marriage - almost every family had a _bachelor_ or two, and many hobbits had been known for being a little reckless in their youth. But daring to make such a preference public...that was an entirely different and dangerous matter, one that should have been sanctioned and opposed.  

Did her husband’s cousin think that no one had guessed what was going on inside Bag End? Worse, he probably did not care at all, as his next words proved.

“I think you’ve overlooked a salute to Master Thorin,” Bilbo said point-blank.

Lobelia was a little shocked at the bluntness of it, but she recovered quickly and raised her chin defiantly.

“I don’t think so,” she replied, throwing a swift glance at the dwarf.

Then she turned her back with a rustle of gowns and pretended to be most interested in the pots of the nearest stall. Behind her back she heard the dwarf grumble something.

“There’s no need. Let her be.”

“You’re quite wrong,” Bilbo replied. Then, a little louder, he asked: “Cousin Lobelia, would you be so kind as to apologise to Master Thorin?”

Lobelia felt her cheeks burn with the mortification of being requested to _apologise to a dwarf_ in the middle of the market. She could see in the corner of her eye that several hobbits were stopping by, forgetting their business in their haste to witness what promised to be a memorable scene. Well, if this was what Bilbo wanted, she would make sure that he would remember it for years to come - she was not the one asking to wash dirty linen in public.

“Should I?” she asked, facing Bilbo with her hands at her waist. “It seems to me that _you_ should apologise to me, dear cousin.”

“Oh, really? For what, prithee?” Bilbo asked in return with a little sharp smile of his own.

“You may have developed strange habits during your _travelling_ ,” she said, making her contempt plain in her voice, “but here we do believe that some decorum must be preserved.”

“And how have I threatened such decorum?” Bilbo inquired, as if he was talking to a fauntling.

“Taking him to the market, among respectable people!” she hissed. “As if welcoming him in your smial wasn’t enough. Three years we have endured this stranger in our community and now for the fourth time you plan to defy the very fundaments of civility and property, consorting with...with this _dwarf_!”

She felt a little intimidated by the dwarf’s presence, considering that he was a head taller than any hobbit she knew and far bulkier. Besides, he had been seen carrying an axe and everyone knew that dwarves were prone to brawling in taverns and streets.

Yet the other hobbits would surely intervene if the dwarf became aggressive and three or four of them would be enough to take him down, wouldn’t they? Suddenly, looking at the way the dwarf’s gaze had darkened, she was no longer confident about the number of hobbits who would stand between him and her.

“Master Thorin is perfectly respectable,” Bilbo replied. Lobelia would have sworn that the dwarf had almost smiled at that, but it remained only a fleeting impression. “He wears boots and swears more than is healthy, but he’s far more welcome to my teacups and silver spoons than you’ll ever be.”

There was some sniggering in the crowd at Bilbo’s words and the spots on Lobelia’s cheeks grew darker with fury.

“How dare you? Insinuating that I...that I...” she could not even bring herself to say it.

“Insinuating that you’ve a keen interest in my silver spoons, you mean? Oh, I dare,” Bilbo nodded. “Now, would you like to correct your mistake and say _Good morning Master Thorin_? I’m sure your manners, dear cousin, require it.”

“Greeting your _paramour_?” Lobelia spat. “No thank you.”

A quiver went through the crowd. Lobelia felt quite emboldened - she had said it, she had said it before half of Hobbiton and the other half would know before nightfall. She had principles, she had standards; she would have never spoken of such a thing in public, but sometimes the bull must be grabbed by its horns.

The bull - that is to say the dwarf - stepped forward then. Not to charge Lobelia though, but to separate her from Bilbo. She heard the dwarf said, softly but still too loud to be ignored:

“Let’s go home, Bilbo.”

“No way.”

And then Bilbo pushed the dwarf aside as if it had been nothing. Lobelia saw that Bilbo’s eyes, when they fell again upon her, were hard and bright though he looked quite collected.

“I’ll have you know that Master Thorin here is _not_ my paramour,” he declared. He took his time to look around him, as if he wanted to make sure he had the attention of the crowd (which had considerably grown since the beginning of their exchange). Bilbo seemed eerily satisfied with the number of hobbits present. He smiled almost to himself, then added in a perfectly feigned off-handed fashion. “He’s my intended.”

 

*

 

“You aren’t listening, are you?”

Thorin flinched in surprise, but Bilbo’s tone was amused rather than annoyed. The melekûn was looking at him with his lips slightly turned upward, his head tilted, and the lightest parcel (a new fine shirt) held close to his chest while he fished for the keys in his pockets.

Thorin grunted noncommittally and just waited for Bilbo to open the round door. They entered Bag End, blinking at the change from the bright light outside to the soft semi-darkness of the doorway. Thorin took care to put down the basket full of produces and the packages on the nearest chest, knowing perfectly well that Bilbo would not appreciate having his purchases bruised or rolling on the floor. Then, before Bilbo had time to take off his jacket and put it on the coat hanger, Thorin pushed him against the wall.

“Thorin, what...” the melekûn yelped, but his voice was drowned into the ferocious kiss Thorin pressed to his mouth.

One arm firmly wound around Bilbo’s soft waist, the other planted against the wall for support, Thorin forgot any foreplay and pushed his tongue between Bilbo’s lips, yielding open beneath his and offering him the residual sweetness of the meringues Bilbo had tasted at one of the market stalls. The sugary flavour melted with the heat of the kiss, while Thorin conscientiously claimed every bit of Bilbo’s mouth, from the lips he nibbled and licked until they felt deliciously swollen, to the tongue he sucked with enthusiastic vigour until he guessed the weakness seeping into Bilbo’s knees. Only then did he slip his hand down the curve of Bilbo’s back and grab him firmly through his trousers, yanking their bodies together in an embrace that should have left no doubt concerning his plans for the near future.

Bilbo gasped, while his small hands found their way up Thorin’s chest to grab strands of his long hair, and his body arched to ensure that as much of it as possible was well-plastered against the dwarf’s. Thorin hummed in approval and drove them both against the wall with a roll of his hips, but not before he had closed his hand on the back of Bilbo’s head to make sure that the impetus would not result in any bump. The fact that he loved having Bilbo’s hair between his fingers was a reward for his thoughtfulness.

“You definitely weren’t listening,” the melekûn commented, when Thorin’s lips strayed from their path and fell on his throat, peeking white from the jacket’s collar. Bilbo gave a small whine as Thorin traced the strained cords of his neck with the tip of his tongue, running it back and down the skin - still a little warm from the sun and the walk. Yet by the time Thorin was peppering kisses on the side of his neck, Bilbo found his voice to add: “I doubt that this has been brought up by my consideration about the Whitfoots’ plan for the new mill.”

“Did you mean it?” Thorin asked all of sudden, fixing his eyes on Bilbo’s face.

He hated the way his voice vibrated with urgency, but he could not quite compose himself - and the fact that Bilbo was growing hard against him did not help in the least.

“That they should have consulted their neighbours before making such plans? Sure, I...”

“Bilbo,” Thorin growled, sensing his frown deepen at the blasted diversion.

Bilbo smirked - of course he knew what Thorin was talking about, the little imp, but he had never meant to make things easy. Otherwise, he would not have made Thorin wait for almost four years. Although he had deserved it, he had no doubt that Bilbo had taken a good deal of pleasure in torturing him like that, sending him back to Erebor at the end of the Summer for three consecutive years with the promise that he would _think_ about it. And then there had been letters going back and forth between the Shire and Erebor, carrying news and small details of the life Bilbo led in the Shire in Thorin’s absence, and sometimes even a couple or more lines which would make Thorin blush and his prick harden (this was how he had learnt to read Bilbo’s correspondence in private first, lest he should stutter and gape at a particularly saucy passage). And though the Summers spent in Bag End had been a continuous delight spiced with minor quarrels, Thorin had never abandoned the idea of becoming more than a lover for Master Baggins.

“I don’t see what you mean,” Bilbo murmured, sending Thorin a coy look which made his blood buzz with impatience. The melekûn’s fingers were caressing his scalp, distracting him with firm touches on his skull and down his nape.

“When you called me your _intended_ ,” Thorin drawled out of his mouth, “before your people,” he added, to be sure that such a significant detail could not be disregarded, “did you mean it?”

“Did you see Lobelia’s face?” Bilbo asked in return, chuckling. Thorin felt annoyed, but he could not really resist the sound of Bilbo’s giggles nor to the way his face was lit up with wicked amusement. “Gadra allâkh, Mahal hefsu binhas,” the melekûn added, his tone dropping on the well-known dwarf adage.

Thorin suppressed a moan at that, since hearing Bilbo speak Khuzdul had just sharpened his burgeoning arousal. His trousers felt tighter and his mouth drier, and still he did not have a straight answer from his mischievous lover. He squeezed his eyes shut, burying his nose in the crook of Bilbo’s neck and inhaling his scent.

“Did you say that to spite your cousin then?” he grumbled, trying to make light of it despite the fact that his heart felt heavy at the mere idea.

Bilbo gave a tug at his hair, forcing Thorin to straighten his head and look at him in the eyes.

“No, love, I didn’t,” the hobbit admitted at last, looking a little sheepish now. “I said it because it’s true. That’s if you’ll still have me. I think that the last time you proposed was last year and I’m not sure if you...”

Thorin was back kissing Bilbo, devouring his mouth while he pinned him against the wall, and relished in the quivers of the smaller frame against his chest and the quick response to his kiss. While he turned his attention to Bilbo’s left ear, catching its lobe between his teeth and fingering its delicate shell, Thorin heard himself muttering:

“Are you sure that it was the way you wanted it? Announcing it at the market, making a scandal? You may have just signed your social exile from your own kin.”

“As if I care,” Bilbo puffed, but the weight of Thorin’s gaze on him seemed to sober him up. “Thorin, I spoke in haste at the market because I was angry at Lobelia, but I meant it. And I don’t regret it. I have no intention of making our engagement a secret, I won’t let them make me feel ashamed of it. Those who want to snub me are very welcome to do so, I don’t need them.”

“Have you thought enough about it?”

“I seem to recall that last year you said that three _bloody_ years should be enough,” Bilbo reminded him, half-smiling. Thorin grunted at the recollection, but said nothing so Bilbo continued. “I loved those Summers with you, and also the letters and the gifts coming through the mail, but...” he shook his head. “Before I left Erebor I asked you to put aside all that nonsense about a courtship, and learn something about me and my culture instead. You came here year after year on my invitation and we made quite something of it, didn’t we?” Bilbo looked at him with unmistakable fondness while he stroked Thorin’s cheeks. “I have loved you for quite a long time,” he declared with a timid smile. Then the smile turned into giggles. “Tell me, what is the word for the hobbit who snatched prince Thorin of all dwarves?”

“Consort,” Thorin replied, his voice creaking at the edges.

“Well then. It’s time you make me your consort, really.”

Thorin half-closed his eyes, savouring the bliss of hearing those long-expected words.

It was not that he had thought that he would never hear them - he had not had many chances to doubt Bilbo’s love over the years, nor his own. Yet his resolve had never wavered and his desire to marry the hobbit had not faded or dwindled. He had put it aside because Bilbo had asked him to; he had devoted himself to making the most of the time he could spend in the Shire and then to nurture his memories during the rest of the year he spent in Erebor, ruling at his father’s side.

So, though he was not surprised, he felt a little shaken. He kissed Bilbo’s forehead reverently and leant into his touch with a whole new range of feelings raging through his body. He saw the melekûn smile in that wiser-than-you way he had grown to love so much.

“I hope now that I’m your intended there will be no rules against ravishing me,” Bilbo commented.

Thorin guffawed at that - Bilbo’s blatant flirting always tended to sound a little preposterous, so his excitement at the hobbit’s words mingled with a certain tender amusement.

“No rules,” he purred, gratified by the way the melekûn’s eyes grew round and dark.

Then, before Thorin could investigate further the subject of the rules they would not be bound to, another thought crossed Bilbo’s mind and the hobbit gave a little cry of distress.

“Oh my, the number of people we should inform! First, you must immediately write to your family so that they can abandon their plan to marry you off to some dwarf princess...”

“There has never been such a plan,” Thorin offered, quite amused, while he turned their position and gently pushed Bilbo down the corridor, taking care that he did not trip over his feet in the haste of talking.

“I suppose you’ll have to write more than one letter: one for your father to ask for his blessing, and another for your siblings with all the details - Dís will sabotage our marriage if she doesn’t receive an accurate account. And you must write all the instructions for the public announcement to Balin!” Thorin nodded, half-listening, while he kept leading Bilbo on, sometimes interrupting him with a kiss - always broken too soon by another gush of words. “And Dwalin, I’m sure you want to write something to him as well, boasting of your conquest and so on, recalling how you would have never thought of such a blessing while you two were hunting orcs together years ago and all the moving things about being brothers-in-arms.”

“I’m sure Dwalin will content himself with a brief note,” Thorin pointed out, taking the time to sweep his big hands up and down the curve of the melekûn’s plump backside, before turning Bilbo in his arms and pressing their flushed bodies together. The bulge in Thorin’s trousers rested quite snugly against Bilbo’s bottom, and the dwarf leant down to whisper suggestively into his ear: “I’ll write those letters _later_.”

Bilbo turned his head to kiss his nose, then took some a few steps toward the master bedroom with Thorin leaning against him - so that their proceeding was altogether impaired by the difficulty of coordinating the dwarf’s naturally longer strides with Bilbo’s small steps, plus Thorin’s obstinacy in trying to work his fingers into Bilbo’s breeches.

“Wait, you impatient brute,” Bilbo protested, laughing and making the whole task of reaching the master bedroom a little more difficult. “We also have to tell Gandalf next time he will be around - I’m sure he will want to give you a lecture on marrying hobbits.”

“He’s very welcome to it,” Thorin grumbled, more focused on the effort of making it to through the bedroom door. In the end he slammed it open with a kick, a solution that roused Bilbo’s indignation.

“You’re destroying our house!” the hobbit squealed.

“ _Our_ ,” Thorin repeated with delight, savouring the word as it set his blood on fire with the happiness of that new claim. The fact that he had learnt how much Bag End meant to Bilbo sharpened his pleasure at hearing the melekûn consider him far more than a guest. “We will keep it obviously,” he added, almost hauling the hobbit off his feet when he kissed him fiercely and carried him over the bedroom’s threshold.

“What? I’ll have you know that there has never been another option, Master Dwarf!” Bilbo cried, breaking the kiss and looking perfectly indignant at the idea that Thorin might have thought about giving Bag End away.

“But you’ll have to make arrangements, since you’re going to live with me in Erebor from now on,” the prince offered, while he moved his hands to the buttons of Bilbo’s jacket. Bilbo slapped his fingers away, taking a step back.

“We never discussed this,” he said, frowning. Then his shoulders sagged and he bit his fingertips, peeping at Thorin. “I mean, I know we have to live in Erebor, you being prince and all that...and that we’ll make a home there, among your people. But Bag End...”

“Is your home as well,” Thorin supplied, stepping closer to wrap Bilbo in his arms. “I cannot promise you that it will always be possible to leave for months at a time to come here, but we’ll make sure that Bag End is taken care of and travel to the Shire as frequently as possible, every Summer if we can. How’s that for you, my fair hobbit?”

Bilbo’s smile turned into soft lips pressed against Thorin’s. Thorin felt the melekûn sigh, apparently quite content with those plans, before he stepped out of the embrace.

“Then I’ll have to speak to Master Holman and to my cousin Drogo, and we should call at Brandy Hall one of these days,” the melekûn murmured, while he started to unbutton his jacket. “I also have to make a list of the things I might want to carry to Erebor with me - you know, clothes, maybe some furniture, my mother’s tableware...but they should be packed with great care and...I don’t mean to put them in danger of ending up in some troll’s treasure,” he prattled on, removing his jacket and putting it on the nearest chair. Then he bit his lower lip. “I can take some of my things to Erebor, can’t I?”

Thorin, who had been sitting on a chair unlacing his boots, looked up.

“Bilbo, you know that I’d give you all you need and more,” he said, very seriously. “Golden teacups, silk shirts, and all the jewels you might be amenable to wearing for your pleasure and mine, âzyungâl. You don’t need a dowry, but if you want to take something to Erebor with you, we’ll arrange that. Everything else you think you may need, tell me and we’ll send word to Balin to provide our quarters with it, whatever you desire.”

Tongue between his lips, thumb hooked in his braces, Bilbo rolled on the balls of his feet while he pondered Thorin’s words. Then a wicked gleam came to his eyes and a little smile appeared on his mouth.

“You may want to tell Balin to have a very sturdy bed prepared for us. I think you may have managed to damage mine beyond repair, for it never creaked so awfully before.”

“If you had allowed me to take a look at your bed, Master Baggins,” Thorin began, putting his boots aside and then rising to his feet to slip his tunic over his head, “I would have probably repaired it. Though I recall that you were a most enthusiastic accomplice in the damage, if it ever occurred.”

Thorin was glad to notice the way Bilbo’s breath caught when he had discarded the tunic, and he made a point of letting the garment fall on the floor. He felt a little smug when the melekûn did not pay mind to the fallen tunic, since Bilbo’s eyes were indulging in the sight of his now exposed chest. Thorin put it out a little, as casually as he could when he was smiling broadly at the evident fascination of his lover with his hairy torso - something he liked to exploit whenever he had a chance.

As Thorin moved closer, Bilbo hastily removed his braces. Then he clicked his tongue.

“The beads! Should I not wear a bead saying _already taken_?” he asked in dismay.

“Yes, âzyungâl,” Thorin sighed, but he kissed Bilbo’s cheek while his hands fumbled with the buttons of the melekûn’s breeches. “I have your beads with me, somewhere among my belongings. I’ve always kept them with me in case you...”

“That’s sweet,” Bilbo hummed, his fingers joining Thorin’s and helping him with the breeches. Leaning against the dwarf for balance he wiggled out of his trousers, raising one foot and then the other, and would have probably folded them if Thorin had not decided that he had had enough of orderly undressing.

“I’ll braid your hair later,” he grunted, before picking Bilbo up and marching toward the bed with his burden half-giggling and half-kissing him on the mouth and beard.

“I thought that you wanted to do this with me wearing _only_ the beads,” Bilbo teased him when he was already on the plush mattress and Thorin was looming over him, trying to make a quick work of those annoyingly small buttons which always came with Bilbo’s shirts.

“I want to do this _now_ ,” the dwarf growled in response, knitting his brow while he concentrated on the task of not tearing the shirt - which had happened, twice, and Bilbo’s reaction had not been pretty.

“Let me. You can take care of your trousers, you dwarfling,” Bilbo tutted, sitting upright to unbutton his shirt with more ease.

Thorin swore under his breath against the current hobbit fashion (too many damned buttons), but slipped down the bed and unbuckled his belt. When he raised his eyes again, trousers mid-thigh, he discovered that the melekûn had got rid of the shirt as well as his smallclothes and made himself comfortable on his side of the bed.

“Weren’t you impatient, my intended?” Bilbo asked, indulging in an innocent tone which had nothing in common with the way his fingers were lazily stroking his prick.

Thorin tried to swallow, failed, closed his eyes for a moment and thought very hard about the fence he had promised to repair and repaint. Then about the sort of warning speech Gandalf would give him as soon as the zigrâl had the chance. Only after that did he dare open his eyes again, welcomed by Bilbo’s breathless chuckling. He took off his trousers at last and climbed onto the bed on all fours, crawling over the melekûn.

“When, my love?” Bilbo inquired, his hand reaching for Thorin’s cheek.

“When what?” Thorin asked, turning his head to lick at Bilbo’s palm, savouring the faint, musky wetness left there by the hobbit’s prick.

He sucked one, then two fingers into his mouth, relishing the pleased moan coming from Bilbo.

“The marriage!” Bilbo breathed, when Thorin let go of his fingers with a scandalous _pop_.

“The sooner the better,” the dwarf declared, mouthing at Bilbo’s hand and licking his way down to his wrist, where he kissed the bluish lines of his heartbeat.

“Can we decide freely?” Bilbo wanted to know, while his other hand brushed against Thorin’s chest to find the dwarf’s nipples among the dark hair. He rubbed one between his fingers, making Thorin’s hips buck and thus bringing their cocks to slide one against the other. They both groaned, then Thorin sighed.

“I fear we cannot, âzyungâl,” he admitted, bowing his head and trying to remember what rules were in place with regard to a prince’s marriage. It was quite difficult to focus while they were both naked and the minutiae did not sound an appealing subject for the bedroom.

“I guessed so,” Bilbo admitted, coming to Thorin’s aid with a soft smile. “Marrying a prince must have its inconveniences, but at least among your people we shall have a marriage - here I would be bound to call you my _paramour_ ,” he said, mocking Lobelia’s scandalised tone.

Thorin let go of Bilbo’s hand and leant down to capture the melekûn’s mouth in a kiss. His big hands cradled Bilbo’s smaller skull while he drove again his prick against Bilbo’s groin and belly, smearing a trail of pre-come on the warm skin. Bilbo kissed him back fervently, his fingers digging into Thorin’s backside while his tongue thrust in and out of the dwarf’s mouth until Thorin felt properly inebriated.

“But we can have some ceremony here as well,” Thorin pointed out when they broke the kiss, propping himself up on his elbows and looking down at Bilbo’s tentative smile. “Maybe not a proper marriage, but a feast with whoever you may wish to invite - your Took cousins for example, Drogo Baggins, Master Holman, and dwarves if you think you could put up with part of my family - Fíli has been asking to visit the Shire for ages, you know.”

“And will you be amenable to having flowers braided in your hair?” Bilbo asked, dragging his nails up Thorin’s spine - the friction had the dwarf arching his back and purring in contentment.

“I will be amenable to having a flower crown around my cock if it pleases you, âzyungâl,” he deadpanned, eyes half-closed while he tasted Bilbo’s piqued surprise.

“You’re shameless,” the melekûn blurted out, pinching his shoulders in retaliation.

“You’re shamelessly focusing on minor details while I’m trying to make love to you,” Thorin pointed out.

“As I said, _shameless_ ,” Bilbo repeated, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his lips and the way he hoisted himself up to rub against Thorin was most endearing. “Do you still mean to marry me?”

Thorin, who had been leaning toward the night stand, froze. Without taking his eyes off the melekûn, he rolled on the side, opened the drawer, then blindly grabbed the bottle of oil they kept there. Sitting on his haunches, he looked at Bilbo thoughtfully.

“Are you asking me that because you’re trying to put me off with all these practical details?” he asked, then uncorked the bottle and inclined it to pour the oil on his fingers. He rubbed them together to spread the oil better, then moved astride Bilbo. “Then, my darling, it’s not working.”

The blush on Bilbo’s cheeks, whether it was brought by Thorin’s words or by the way the dwarf reached behind to work himself open, was exquisite. Bilbo opened his rosy mouth but nothing came out of it, so he closed it and strained his neck as if he wanted to see what Thorin was doing back there - whatever Bilbo was imagining, with the aid of experience and the expression the dwarf was wearing right now, it was enough to make him moan Thorin’s name.

Thorin smiled with some effort, feeling the tension coiling in his muscle, starting where his fingers pried and poked, running up his back and down his thighs, then up again to his face, setting his jaw and his brow into a rigid, intense frown - your _bed-frown_ Bilbo called it. And he felt Bilbo’s small fingers reaching for it, so he leant down  as much as he could while his body quivered with the strain of adjusting to the intrusion. Bilbo smoothed his forehead, babbling small words of praise - he had never desisted from calling Thorin _pretty_.

It was when Thorin was already biting on his lower lip, his back so tense to send a spark of pain up and down his spine, two of his thick fingers worming their way in, that he saw Bilbo’s blue-grey eyes opened upon him, darkened with arousal and something more - a shadow of doubt.

“It’s only that I sort of sprang this on you at the market...”

“It was a little shocking,” Thorin conceded, interrupting Bilbo in a flow of words which left him a little breathless. He groaned, shifting lower with his pelvis, the searing-hot hardness of Bilbo’s prick feeding the fire in his limbs. “Not unwelcome though. It could have never been unwelcome. I may not have asked you to become my consort every day, but it has never left my mind.”

“I love you,” Bilbo whispered, his hands on Thorin’s thighs to steady him.

Thorin whimpered, wishing that he had already loosened himself enough to take Bilbo’s prick. Something in the impatient brusqueness of his proceedings caught the melekûn’s attention and Thorin saw him roll his eyes, before his gaze became a little sharper.

“You oaf, let me help,” Bilbo muttered, his fingers squeezing Thorin’s biceps. A little grudgingly at being scolded, Thorin took away his fingers, flinching slightly at the burning sensation they left behind. He gave the bottle of oil to the melekûn without a word, for he was still panting and would not trust his voice. “I can’t fathom how you can be so careful when you prepare me and then so careless when it comes to yourself sometimes,” Bilbo continued, while he coated his fingers in oil.

“I’m a dwarf,” Thorin grumbled, following Bilbo’s movements with hungry eyes.

“Do not use your _I’m a dwarf and I’m not made of glass_ attitude in bed.”

Thorin would have gladly found some fitting remark, but Bilbo’s finger began to probe his entrance and all logical thoughts fled his mind. With a groan, Thorin leant forward, both his elbows placed on the bed to support his shaking body. Bilbo’s face was suddenly closer, so that the next sounds slipping from Thorin’s throat were promptly stifled against Bilbo’s mouth.

Amidst pleasure clouding his mind, Thorin wondered why he had ever thought to protest when Bilbo had decided to lend a hand. Dwarf fingers were thicker and longer, but Bilbo’s had become quite deft at preparing him, knowing exactly what pleased him most and how to rub him till he felt all loose and wet with oil. He took to pushing himself against his lover’s fingers, meeting their delicate thrusts with some impatience, a low purr in his throat and his cock repeatedly stabbing Bilbo’s soft belly.

“Deeper,” Thorin ordered, before catching Bilbo’s lower lip between his teeth.

“It’s not easy while you’re sweating and squirming above me,” the melekûn protested, using his free hand to get a grip on Thorin’s hip while he tried to change the angle of his fingers a little. “Is it any good, Your Highness?” he inquired after a few moments filled with the dwarf’s laboured breathing.

Thorin frowned before realising that Bilbo would not see his glare, since he had buried his face into the pillow next to the melekûn’s head to stifle his moans. He turned his head, his mouth seeking Bilbo’s cheek and founding Bilbo’s lips instead, parted and soft. Their kiss was a languid thing, even gentle compared to the methodical thrust aimed at loosening the ring of muscle between Thorin’s cheeks.

When Bilbo broke the kiss with a happy sigh, Thorin reached behind himself to nudge the melekûn’s hand away. Then he pushed himself up, hands against the mattress until he could straighten his back. He hardly refrained from chuckling when he saw how round Bilbo’s eyes had grown - as if he could not believe his luck at the sight of their pricks slowly rubbing against each other, Thorin’s longer and darker, Bilbo’s a gentler shade of pink, its tip uncovered and glazed with pre-come. For a moment the dwarf was very much tempted to slide further up, until he could lay his cock on that pretty tongue peeking out between Bilbo’s lips. But he had other plans this time.

He poured oil directly on Bilbo’s prick, smirking at the melekûn’s whine of protest.

“ _Really_ Thorin? You don’t have to fry me in the pan!” Bilbo muttered, though his complaints faded as soon as Thorin closed his hand around him to spread and warm the oil.

“I’m being careful,” the dwarf replied, giving a little but particularly vicious twist that had Bilbo madly thrusting into his fist - it made Thorin laugh and grow harder at the same time.

“I want a marriage contract,” Bilbo hissed, his head almost drowning in the pillow.

“To what end, my fair one?” Thorin inquired, while he shifted a little further, one hand around Bilbo’s prick and the other on the melekûn’s chest, following the ups and downs of his heavy breath.

“To stipulate that you’re not allowed to...” a moan was all Bilbo could manage when Thorin lowered himself down onto the melekûn’s prick.

Fitting the head in was always a little tricky, especially in that position, but the oil gentled the way and the weight of Thorin’s body did the rest, dragging him down until he had engulfed the whole tip and Bilbo was screwing his eyes shut, cheeks ablaze as if he had remained too long in the sun.

“I’ve one clause,” Thorin breathed, allowing his hands to indulge in the curves of the body beneath his, “to put in the contract,” he continued, while he circled Bilbo’s navel with one thumb and brushed Bilbo’s right nipple with the other, “that is to share,” a little moan on Bilbo’s part when he slid further down, taking more of the melekûn’s prick inside him, “this bedroom with you,” a roll of hips to punctuate, “from now on.”

It was difficult to guess if the eye-rolling was a compliment at the way Thorin was lowering himself, his strong thighs taut with the effort of slowing down the motion, or a sign of annoyance at his words. Probably the second, since Bilbo found it in himself to crack his eyes open and cast Thorin a dirty glance.

“ _You_ share this bedroom,” he snapped, his manners made delightfully edgy by his arousal.

Thorin’s thighs shifted a little, his hands wandered down to Bilbo’s hips and steadied their grip. He held his lover’s gaze while he lifted his body and then went down again, so that Bilbo cried his name and fumbled with his hands among the sheets, gripping them as if he had completely forgotten that he would _hate_ to have them torn. Thorin himself needed some time to adjust to the beauty of feeling his hobbit - his _consort-to-be_ \- fully seated inside him, nudging him inside with every short breath Bilbo took and with every tremor shaking his small body, their groins slippery with the profusion of oil.  

“Unofficially,” Thorin underlined when he could speak again. “Every damned Summer you put me in the guest room.” Bilbo hid his face behind his hands at the remark, though his hips were far less shy and they gave a little faltering upward thrust. Thorin hummed, seconding the movement of the melekûn’s body and encouraging its repetition, with his big hands almost lifting Bilbo’s hips themselves. “ _Oh Thorin, it’s better if we don’t share my bedroom, we’re supposed to get acquainted with each other_.” Thorin’s impression of Bilbo’s prim tone was so terrible that they both burst out laughing and it took a couple of shallow thrusts to bring some seriousness back between them. “Yes, you told me that, the first Summer I came here to woo you. I did take the guest room, didn’t I? And spent the first eight nights miserably alone.” As if in retaliation for those nights, Thorin’s grip on Bilbo’s waist pinned him to the mattress while he set the pace - a tortuously slow pace. “Then, you came to my room like a burglar. You slipped into my bed and took off your ridiculous nightshirt while I was still deciding whether I was dreaming or not.”

“You didn’t complain!” Bilbo whined, his hands scrambling up Thorin’s thighs until he could close both his hands around the dwarf’s erection.

“I never complain when you’re naked,” Thorin reminded him, before tossing his head back and giving a low, deep rumbling. _Hands of a burglar_ he thought, looking down in amazement at Bilbo’s hands stroking him. “I thought that you’d be satisfied, but no...you have kept exiling me to the guest room Summer after Summer. How many days this time, Master Baggins? Before you sneaked into my room and I found you naked in my bed?” Thorin insisted, his words interspersed by his ragged breaths while he bounced up and down - _bouncing_ being something he disliked in association with himself, but that easily came to his mind when he sped things up a little.

“ _Two_! Fine, two days!” Bilbo cried.

After that admission, Thorin only thought about the delicious pressure of Bilbo’s prick inside him and how he could direct that pressure where it sharpened his pleasure and made his loins thick with maddening arousal. He lost track of the endearments Bilbo was whispering and moaning - a pity indeed, for Bilbo could be most poetic and Thorin would have liked to hear each one of his praises; yet the meaning of Bilbo’s words was drowned in the pressure of his blood, in the haste of taking him deeper, harder, faster.

It ended with Bilbo’s fingers wrapped around him, a little tug that blinded Thorin for a brief moment and landed him back in the bedroom when he was already spurting his seed across Bilbo’s belly. The way his body clenched down on the melekûn’s prick probably did it for Bilbo - or maybe it was the sight of a most debauched prince of Erebor riding him to his peak - since he followed Thorin shortly after with a mute cry. The warmth spreading inside him and partly slipping out, dripping down his thighs and Bilbo’s spent stones, wetting the sheets, made Thorin feel properly marked.

His head was spinning and his vision was slightly unfocused; drops of sweat burnt his eyes, but he could not be bothered to lift his hand and sweep his forehead. Still, after a few moments of basking in the afterglow, he found the energy to get up, albeit slowly, and throw himself on his stomach beside Bilbo.

Legs still tangled, Thorin’s hand splayed on Bilbo’s chest, they looked lazily at each other across the pillow crushed between them.      

“I rest my case,” the dwarf declared at last.

“Oh, fine. You’ll get to bring your things here to the master bedroom,” Bilbo puffed. He took a glance at his stomach where Thorin’s semen was drying up and seemed to wonder whether he really needed to do something about it. He clearly decided that he did not mind so much (Thorin loved reducing Bilbo to such a state of impropriety), and just went back to smiling at his prince. “But I’ll see you in a dressing gown. I’m not going to bear the sight of you wandering naked in our house.”

Thorin would have laughed, but he was too tired. He grinned though, his hand moving to cup Bilbo’s cheek.

“I may have grown accustomed to your dressing gown,” Thorin murmured, savouring the softness and the warmth of Bilbo’s skin against his calloused palm. The absence of beard, once so unsettling, had turned into nothing more (and nothing less) than a difference - and in truth one Thorin particularly liked. The point was that the differences between him and the melekûn had not faded, but they no longer looked like obstacles. The tip of his fingers traced Bilbo’s lips. “I thought nothing or worse of your dressing gown at first, then I decided I would tolerate it for your sake, but in truth I may have begun to find it quite a beauty to behold.”

“That settles it then,” Bilbo replied, thoroughly amused. A teasing light had appeared in his eyes and shone brighter when he declared: “You’ve grown into a hobbit at last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  _Gadra allâkh, Mahal hefsu binhas_ : Against stupidity Mahal Himself is helpless

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://erinyewrites.tumblr.com/)!  
> And you can take a look at my other new story, [Flowers and Flaws](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3379079/chapters/7391450).


End file.
